


ImpalaASMR

by undersail2013



Category: Supernatural
Genre: ASMR, Alternate Universe - College/University, Chuck Shurley is Castiel's Parent, Demiromantic Dean Winchester, Denny's, Engagement, Gray-Asexual Castiel (Supernatural), Implied/Referenced Dubious Consent, M/M, Minor Charlie Bradbury/Gilda, Naomi is Castiel's Parent (Supernatural), Past Castiel/Meg Masters, Pining, Pink Panties, Sex Worker Dean Winchester, dcpf_2020, dean/alistair - Freeform, deancaspinefest, minor dean/gilda, moons over my hammy, rooty tooty fresh n fruity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-15
Updated: 2020-04-15
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:35:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 21,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23659237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/undersail2013/pseuds/undersail2013
Summary: Castiel enjoys relaxing with ASMR videos on Tutube.  He’s particularly entranced by those of ImpalaASMR, an ASMRtist pushing the boundaries of sound engineering.  Except he’s also pushing the boundaries of internet sex work, which leaves Castiel deeply confused.  Dean is very into sex and confident in his sexuality, and Castiel is SO NOT.  Good thing he’s little more than a television character, and not a real flesh-and-blood person on Castiel’s doorstep...
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester, Castiel/Meg Masters, Charlie Bradbury/Gilda, Dean/Alistair, Naomi/Chuck Shurley, gilda/dean
Comments: 35
Kudos: 88
Collections: Dean/Cas Pinefest 2020





	1. Castiel Falls Hard

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to my artist (and DeanCas Pinefest mod extraordinaire) @imogenbynight : [ _link to art_](https://imogenbynight.tumblr.com/post/615507473364877312/impalaasmr-art-masterpost-as-part-of-this-years)

**ImpalaASMR**

_“Hey guys,” the man whispers breathily into a binaural microphone. Leaning towards one side, then the other, and back again, he continues his opening spiel. “It’s Dean.” He flashes a grin at the camera mounted directly in front of him, just a hair above eye level. “I have a couple new roleplays I’m working on for my AdultSkate Patronus folks. Those will be up this weekend.” He waggles his eyebrows. “In case you were on the fence about becoming a supporter. But tonight,” he murmurs, “I wanted to check in with y’all. And let you know. I haven’t forgotten about you.” He rubs his hands together next to the microphone, the slide of his palms creating a rough rasp. “I have a bunch of triggers here. To help you sleep. Rated G, I promise.”_

The ASMRtist went by ImpalaASMR AllAges. Castiel had seen the name pop up here and there, usually as ImpalaASMR AdultSkate, with titles like “XXX AUDIO-ONLY In the Backseat” and “Rated R AUDIO-ONLY Make-out Session.” This was the first ImpalaASMR video title he had seen that hadn’t looked like a porno for the visually impaired: “All-ages. Calming bedtime chat and relaxing sounds.” He clicked on it despite his misgivings, only to find that “Dean,” as ImpalaASMR referred to himself in his intro, was devastatingly handsome. The model’s cheekbones and practiced pout notwithstanding, Castiel was immediately drawn in by his gorgeous eyes. He had vibrant green irises and the longest lashes Castiel had ever seen on a man. He wondered if he was wearing makeup- maybe some mascara and a discreet lip gloss? He knew that actors and television personalities often used cosmetics to compensate for harsh lights, but he doubted that an ASMR studio necessitated such measures. And he could pick out freckles scattered across the bridge of the man’s nose, just sun-kissed.

Castiel realized he was staring open-mouthed. He shook himself. Sure, a good ASMR video could be hypnotic, but he felt bewitched. 

On-screen, Dean was lazily scratching both ends of the mic and talking in a deep register about ... nothing, really. Castiel tuned back in to his words; he was musing about his week. Seems he was starting college. Castiel perked up- did he say where? But he had to laugh at himself. There were thousands of universities in the United States; it’s not like this TuTuber was going to show up in Lawrence next week.

***

Castiel was still awake when the video ended, so he clicked on the next ImpalaASMR vid. This one was also rated-G, in which he played with the fluffy mic covers. No talking, just running his fingers through the faux fur, occasionally rubbing the head of the microphone. Blowing through the fluff, making it flare and sending a whooshing static into the audio channel. Castiel’s hair stood on end from the time Dean waved hello until the last wink as the screen faded to black.

Emboldened, he clicked through to ImpalaASMR’s adult channel. He wasn’t much for pornography (he was embarrassed enough about his penchant for ASMR, seeking feigned intimacy from a stranger online), but he had to know what the XXX AUDIO-ONLY vids were all about. 

The first in the audio-only list was “XXX AUDIO-ONLY Handy.” Castiel took a deep breath and pressed Play.

_A black screen. A channel title card, depicting what looks like a supernova exploding into the shape of a flaming pentagram, with the words “ImpalaASMR AdultSkate” in a tall, thin font. It fades to black, and a warning appears: “The following video employs creative foley work in order to create an immersive experience for adult entertainment only. If you’re under 18, scram!” The screen goes black again. The sound of a match being struck close to a microphone, and the lighting of a jar candle. The wooden wick flickers and crackles, then a puff of breath extinguishes the match with a flourish. The camera stays trained on the lit candle, the little pool of light providing all of the illumination. No other lights; nothing else on screen. Just the soft glimmer of candlelight._

_“Hey there. I’m glad you could make it. I’ve been thinking about you all day.”_

_There is a soft, rhythmic sound, barely distinguishable as the unbuttoning of a shirt. A zipper and the rustle of thick fabric, like jeans, then gliding smoothly as if being slid down over silky underwear. A sharp snap of elastic._

_“Mmm, pink panties.” A hand rubbing against satin in an unhurried manner. Enjoying the feel, enjoying the sound. “You like that?” A short moan, hardly more than an audible grin. Another snap, then the panties dragged downwards._

_The shaking of a little bottle of liquid for a minute or so, and some light tapping of fingernails against plastic. A spout being flipped open and closed a couple of times. There is a small squirting noise off-mic, and the bottle being set down._

_“Might be cold. Lemme warm it up.” Palms made slippery with lube. “Here we go,” he murmurs. The slipperiness moves from a lateral rubbing of hands to a vertical sliding, wet and slow._

Castiel paused the video. His face felt hot; his mouth was dry. He rushed to the bathroom sink. He gulped a mouthful of water and ran his wet hands over his face and up through his hair. He was very uncomfortable with the sudden tightness of his pajama pants. It wasn’t that Dean was a man. Far from it: “I am utterly indifferent to sexual orientation,” he told the mirror. He glanced down at his erection. He was not utterly indifferent to sex, though; rather, pretty solidly opposed. He hadn’t masturbated to a video in a very long time, not since he used to practice getting excited for sex with Meg. Since the Declaration and subsequent break-up, he hadn’t felt the need. He got more enjoyment from the Tingles app than he had ever mustered from her Pornhub account, or the lower half of her body, for that matter. He missed the early days of his relationship with Meg, when they were just kids and didn’t think about sex, and their most daring physical intimacy was back massages and foot rubs. “But you can’t go backwards,” he muttered. “Once you have sex, that’s all there is.”

He sighed. He dried his hands and face and returned to the bedroom. He tried not to notice his own actions as he pulled off his clothes and slid into bed naked. He blew out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

Unpause.

Castiel gripped himself. He squeezed the shaft experimentally. After a few dry strokes, he stopped to dig out some lubricant. Oh, that had been Meg’s. Massage oil would probably work. He poured a small puddle into his palm. Too much- he would have to wash the sheets tomorrow and pray the oil didn’t set. 

The oil was cold on his penis and dripped unpleasantly down and around his testicles, but he recovered as a small gasp escaped the man in the video. Castiel felt his dick jump with a rush of blood and his face went slack. He stroked himself again. At first, he merely played with the oil, hearing the squelching and feeling slippery fingers sliding over and around the shaft, but soon he had fallen into a rhythm, the rhythm set by the video. 

_“Oh,” Dean moans. “Right there. Oh yeah, can you feel that?”_

Castiel nodded and bit his lip. 

_“You feel so good. You’re doing so good. Ah.”_

Castiel felt a surge of electricity burn into his belly. He whined. “Oh my god,” he whispered.

_“Oh my god, babe. Oh. Yeah. Just like that.”_

“Okay.”

_“Keep going. Don’t stop. Almost there. Are you ready, babe?”_

“Oh my god. Yes. Yes. I’m ready. I’m gonna... OH! Godddd...”

_“Ohhhhh. AH! Ah god, oh my god. Oh.” There’s a long moan over the sound of a bruising kiss, then several soft kisses in quick succession. “You did so good. Mmm.” Another kiss, longer, breathier, deepening without heat. Sensuous. The kiss breaks, and Dean sighs, blissed out and exhausted. “Hey,” he whispers, tenderness in his voice. “This was fun. I’m so glad you came. But I’m gonna turn in now. I hope you sleep well. Good night! Good night!”_

_The screen goes black. The video ends._

Castiel didn’t notice. He stared at the ceiling for a time before falling asleep. His dream-self rushed in where waking-Castiel feared to tread: they dreamed about green eyes and freckles and swapping blowjobs with the most beautiful person in the world. 


	2. Packing Up

**ASMR Moondoor Queen**

The next night, Castiel opened TuTube in search of some calming bedtime ASMR. Immediately, his feed was full of ImpalaASMR videos. He groaned. _Stupid algorithms._ TuTube also helpfully offered him an array of similar videos. Two more male ASMRtists he’d never seen before, a clip from _This Old House_ , and a video titled “XXX: The History of RUM.” Castiel rolled his eyes. He kept scrolling and found one by ASMR Moondoor Queen that looked appealing. “Bedtime Stories for Grown-Ups: The Hobbit.” The TuTube promotional text under the video informed him that “ImpalaASMR subscribes to this channel,” and for a moment he worried that it might be more of the same “adult” content. He clicked anyway.

_The video begins with a slick pre-produced opening sequence. A jolly medieval tune plays over video of a stunning redhead in a scarlet medieval gown and a gleaming crown, presumably presiding over a joust at some renaissance festival event. Two horses run at each other, and the knight in green is thrown. Victorious, the knight in red pulls off their helmet in dramatic fashion, revealing the same redheaded woman, now in jouster garb and striking a heroic pose. The scene fades, the name of the channel appears on screen, and a man’s voice whispers, “All hail ASMR Moondoor Queen.”_

_The redheaded woman comes into focus. “Hey guys, gals, and nonbinary pals,” she chirps in a stage whisper. “It’s Charlie of Moondoor. Tonight, I have one of my very favorite bedtime stories, The Hobbit. My mom used to read this to me every night. Truth be told, I made this video for me, so I could fall asleep listening to it like I did then, but I hope you all will enjoy it, too. It’s a long video, because I’m reading the whole book in this one video, but as always, I’ll mark the chapter start-times below. This video was made possible by a Patron, who happens to be a very dear friend of mine, whom I love like a brother. So, thanks Dean! My Patronus deets are listed below; tiers start at $1 for early-access to videos like this one, and I have a bidding tier for the competitive folks. This month’s prize for highest bidder is VIP access at our next Moondoor event, including the full regalia of a Handmaiden of Moondoor._

_“This copy of The Hobbit is the 1966 American edition, and as you can see, it’s pretty tattered. It’s like the Velveteen Rabbit; it’s been loved to pieces-”_

Castiel had never actually read _The Hobbit_ , though, so he starred the video, resolving to come back and listen to it tomorrow while he finished packing. He clicked through to her channel. He found more titles in the Bedtime Stories for Grown-Ups series, as well as the usual roleplay videos: “Tending to Your Battle Wounds,” “Best Friend Does Your Cosplay Makeup,” “Hermione Helps You With Your Homework.” She also had some interactive Choose Your Own Adventure videos. He wondered how that worked. This video was only 30 minutes, and it wasn’t so late yet. 

He watched the same opening sequence. Charlie came on-screen. 

_“Hey guys, gals, and nonbinary pals, it’s Charlie, back with another Choose Your Own Adventure! You know how this works: when we come to a Decision Point, you’ll see two options pop up on your screen right here,” pointing at a space about waist-high with both index fingers, “and whichever you choose will take you to the next part of the story. Ready? Let’s get started! This one is direct from the books, and it was one of my favorites growing up. The Magic of the Unicorn.”_

***

After breakfast, Castiel pulled all of the suitcases in the house into his bedroom. He stacked the liquor-store boxes in the hallway outside his room, effectively barricading himself inside to force himself to focus. He had a list of what he wanted to bring. Multiple lists, in fact. He just had to _do_ it.

_“Chapter 1,” intones ASMR Moondoor Queen. “An Unexpected Party. In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit. Not a nasty, dirty, wet hole, filled with the ends of worms and an oozy smell, nor yet a dry, bare, sandy hole with nothing in it to sit down on or to eat: it was a hobbit-hole, and that means comfort. It had a perfectly round door like a porthole, painted green, with a shiny yellow brass knob in the exact middle. The door opened on to a tube-shaped hall like a tunnel: a very comfortable tunnel without smoke, with panelled walls, and floors tiled and carpeted, provided with polished chairs, and lots and lots of pegs for hats and coats — the hobbit was fond of visitors. The tunnel wound on and on, going fairly but not quite straight into the side of the hill — The Hill, as all the people for many miles round called it — and many little round doors opened out of it, first on one side and then on another. No going upstairs for the hobbit: bedrooms, bathrooms, cellars, pantries (lots of these), wardrobes (he had whole rooms devoted to clothes), kitchens, dining-rooms, all were on the same floor, and indeed on the same passage. The best rooms were all on the left-hand side (going in), for these were the only ones to have windows, deep-set round windows looking over his garden, and meadows beyond, sloping down to the river.”_

Castiel grinned at the description. He could very well imagine a cozy little home like the hobbit’s. He grabbed the last armload from the sock drawer, stuffing rolls into the corners alongside his undershirts and boxers and belts. He zipped shut his first suitcase.

_“This hobbit was a very well-to-do hobbit, and his name was Baggins. The Bagginses had lived in the neighbourhood of The Hill for time out of mind, and people considered them very respectable, not only because most of them were rich, but also because they never had any adventures or did anything unexpected: you could tell what a Baggins would say on any question without the bother of asking him. This is a story of how a Baggins had an adventure, and found himself doing and saying things altogether unexpected. He may have lost the neighbours’ respect, but he gained — well, you will see whether he gained anything in the end.”_

He frowned, recognizing himself too acutely in the line “Never had any adventures or did anything unexpected.” Was that a good thing or a bad thing? Certainly, one knew what his mother would do without bothering to ask - Naomi prided herself on being proper and respectable at all times, even if her husband was considerably more, hmm, capricious. Heaven knows, Castiel tried to be more like his mother, but the messiness of his father’s influence always marred his efforts. At least in her eyes. Castiel couldn’t escape comparisons to Carver’s slovenly appearance, even when he presented himself in suit, tie, and overcoat, per her expectations. He fingered the end of a blue silk tie, the one his mother said brought out the color of his eyes. He pulled at it roughly, and the whole tie rack fell into a pile at his feet. “Good,” he scowled. 

His mood improved as Charlie read about Belladonna and The Old Took, and he applied himself to rolling each tie into a neat swirl, and tucking them into a smallish carry-on bag. He chuckled at poor Bilbo’s attempts to resist the stranger. _“Bless me, life used to be quite inter — I mean, you used to upset things badly in these parts once upon a time.”_ He piled as many suits into the garment bag as he could manage, minus the one he intended to wear tomorrow. He hung the tan trenchcoat on the same hanger, and the blue silk tie. Maybe leaving home and going to university was adventure enough for Castiel. After all, his relationship with Meg had been quite interesting, but she did have a tendency to upset things badly.

Charlie’s reading of the unexpected party carried him through all of the suitcases. He swapped the suitcases for the boxes. He pitched his shoes into a box that once held vodka, and lugged all of his clothes downstairs. He was making good progress.

He hadn’t hit Pause on the video. He came back to Bilbo wondering _“how he found himself outside, without a hat, a walking-stick or any money, or anything that he usually took when he went out; leaving his second breakfast half-finished and quite unwashed-up, pushing his keys into Gandalf’s hands, and running as fast as his furry feet could carry him down the lane, past the great Mill, across The Water, and then on for a mile or more. Very puffed he was, when he got to Bywater just on the stroke of eleven, and found he had come without a pocket-handkerchief!”_

Castiel snapped his fingers. He had forgotten to pack any handkerchiefs. 

He looked around the room at all the boxes that still needed filling, and for just a moment he wished he could _just leave_ , empty-handed, with only the clothes on his back. But his stomach churned with anxious energy at the idea. He rarely left the house without a destination, and certainly never without the tan trenchcoat, its pockets jammed with keys, wallet, spare gloves, a packet of tissues, chapstick, a Tylenol bottle that also contained a few allergy pills and his anxiety meds, in case he forgot to take them that morning, and all the other things he might possibly need in the outside world. His father laughed and called it his purse; his mother scoffed and called it his security blanket. Meg hadn’t loved the old thing, but she had generously referred to it as his armor. 

They were all correct. 

How would he cope, alone in a strange apartment in a strange town? He shrugged. He would have to. 

The boxes filled, the room emptied. The movers would be there in the morning. After dinner, Castiel said good night to his parents and retired. He finished listening to _The Hobbit_ , but he couldn’t sleep. He put on an ImpalaASMR AllAges video. Then another. Around midnight, he took a melatonin. He rewatched the XXX video from the night before. He dozed some, but he was awake again with the sun. Exhausted and anxious, he got ready for moving day.


	3. Moving Day

**The Eastwind Witch**

Castiel took a long, hot shower, trying to dispel the butterflies in his stomach. When that didn’t work, he looked for an anti-anxiety video that wouldn’t attempt to put him to sleep. He found one by The Eastwind Witch that promised exactly what he needed: “Releasing Anxiety During the Workday.” 

_The video opens with an animated title card, a plume forming the channel name in a beautiful, flowing script. A Scottish voice whispers, “The Eastwind Witch.” The animation clears the screen, and the ASMRtist appears. “Hello dearie,” says a slim woman with striking eye makeup and red, red lipstick. “I’m the Eastwind Witch.” She doesn’t give her name. “I understand you’re feeling a bit poorly today. Your tummy? Oh, it’s in knots, is it? You’re feeling a bit anxious, then? Ah. And you’re at work, so you can’t just pop off to bed at the mo’. I see.”_

He heard stirring downstairs. He was not prepared to eat any breakfast; packing the car might buy him some time before his mother insisted on him sitting down at the table. He put in his Airpods and grabbed his coat, a lamp, and the garment bag. 

_The Eastwind Witch lights a candle. “...I need to conduct a short examination. Now, dearie, tell me, when was the last time you ate? Mmm-hmm. Oh, where are my manners, I meant to offer you some tea! Drink up!” A slurping sound. “Yes, it is rather bitter. Hm? No, it’s not exactly a potion. Of course, it’s perfectly safe! Just a few wee herbs to help you relax.”_

“Good morning, Castiel. How did you sleep?” Naomi asked.

He responded by gesturing at the Airpods in his ear and waving the lamp in his other hand. He shrugged as if to apologize for not stopping to talk and continued outside. 

_“...Check your eyes. Keep your head straight and follow my finger. Mm-hmm. Okay. Yes. Good. Very good. I’m going to put my hands on your throat to check your glands. Let me warm them up first; my hands can be quite cold.” She pauses to rub her hands together for a minute, alternating to the left and to the right._

Castiel could hear the audio ripple from one headphone to the other, tickling his scalp. 

He opened the hatch of his father’s ancient station wagon. Most of the suitcases would fit in here, he calculated, and he could still wedge in the box of toiletries. They could leave earlier than anticipated - leave Naomi to supervise the movers - and Castiel would still have all of the essentials. 

He startled when The Eastwind Witch resumed speaking. He’d lost himself in the impossible hope of leaving sooner rather than later. 

_“So! I’ve completed my examination of your person. The next step is to consult the bones. Yes, they’re real bones. See? They’re ankle bones.”_

He guessed that she was holding one up to the microphone and tapping it with her long witchy fingernails. 

_Then a swirling rattle. She was shaking them in her hand like dice. “Deer bones are typical, but I’ve seen talus bones from all sorts of animals: zebra, horses, giraffe. These are quite small. Probably from a cat.”_

Castiel frowned. 

_“Don’t worry, dear, all of my bones are ethically sourced.” She rattles the bones in her cupped hands and shakes them out onto a hard surface. They skitter, then settle. “Hmm. Mmm. Mmm-hmm.” She taps her fingernails on the tabletop. “Yes, I thought so. Let me see. I’ve got a box of crystals here.” Gems sliding against one another. She swishes, lifts, filters the stones through her fingers._

“Castiel!”

He jerked his head towards the front door. His father stood there in his ratty old bathrobe, the one he never would let Naomi replace, no matter how much she fussed. He pulled one earpiece out.

“Your mother needs you.”

He huffed but hurried inside. “You wanted to see me, Mother?” 

“Yes, Castiel, it’s time for breakfast. Take those things out of your ears and wash up.”

“Yes, Mother.” If he hoped to convince her to let him leave early, he had to stay on her good side. Anyway, his stomach no longer hurt, beyond the usual low-level fluttering. 

“...The movers will be here from noon to two, which means you will need to pack a lunch if you hope to get to Lawrence by dinnertime.”

Castiel slid into his seat as his father placed a plate of scrambled eggs and turkey sausage in front of him. “I was wondering about that, actually. I think we can fit a lot of my personal items into the Taurus. I could have the car packed shortly after breakfast, and Father and I could get on the road before the movers even arrive. I mean, if that’s okay with you?” he added, glancing between his parents.

Naomi pursed her lips. “You want me to supervise the movers alone?”

“Not completely alone,” Carver cut in. “Aren’t the boys coming over to help?”

“Michael _might_ come,” she sneered, “but I have no confidence in Gabriel. Honestly, Carver, if I’d known _your_ sons would be such a terrible influence on _my_ Gabriel, I never would have let him move in with them."

Carver didn’t take the bait, only grunted.

“At least our Castiel hasn’t been corrupted,” she said with a sickly sweet smile towards her youngest. “Eat your eggs, dear, and then you can see about the car. I’ll discuss the change in plans with your father.” She then turned the conversation to less urgent matters. 

Castiel ate as quickly as he dared, without calling attention to himself, lest she admonish him for “shoveling his food.” He excused himself and cleared his plate, then made a beeline for his room. He pushed the Airpods back into his ears, only to discover that he had neglected to press pause. He restarted the video and wheeled two of the larger suitcases out into the hallway.

By the time the video ended, the car was loaded: two large suitcases, two medium-sized ones (one of which was Carver’s overnight bag), four carry-on shoulder bags (including one that held nothing but electronics and cables), a backpack full of school supplies, a box of toiletries, another of cleaning supplies, and a tote bag with Castiel’s favorite books, plus a pillow and sleeping bag for each of them, just in case the furniture was delayed. He ended up having no room for the lamp that he had already brought outside; he debated holding it in his lap, but ultimately decided that he didn’t relish having his hands full for seven-plus hours. He left it next to the stack of boxes for the movers. Without it, there was just enough space for driver and passenger, two coffee cups, two cell phones and the cigarette-lighter charger, and a bag of snacks. Assuming they did not need to see out the back window. 

To Castiel’s delight, his mother agreed to let them get on the road at ten o’clock. She accepted a kiss on the cheek from her son as she wished him a pleasant trip and instructed him to call when they got to the apartment. She waved to her husband, who was already in the driver’s seat and honking for Castiel. 

They passed the first hour in stilted conversation, mostly small talk about packing and moving and about which courses Castiel had signed up for. At some point, Carver began a long monologue about his latest novel, which was due to the publisher on Tuesday, though he still needed to tweak the ending, but that he “probably won’t have time because of you moving.”

“That’s a week away - you’ll be home tomorrow.” Castiel tried not to feel guilty for pulling him away from his work, knowing full well that Carver Edlund had been phoning it in for a decade. 

“Yeah, that’s true. I dunno, I probably won’t get to it,” he shrugged. “It’s not my best story anyway. It’ll be lucky to break the NYT Top Ten.”

They lapsed into uneasy silence. Carver flipped the stations as they headed out of range of the presets. He found a classic rock station touting “Two-fer Tuesdays, Double Shots of all your favorites!” Castiel popped in an Airpod surreptitiously to drown out his father’s version of “Horse With No Name” and watched the scenery whizz past. 

***

The tan Taurus pulled into the apartment complex at 6:15 pm. Castiel already had the keys, but they stopped in at the management office anyway, so Carver could “put a face to the name” of the leasing agent he’d been in contact with. As it happened, Becky was everything Castiel expected: blonde, bubbly, and completely starstruck. He didn’t want to watch his father “schmooze” (read: flirt), so he excused himself to go unload the car. 

Two trips in, he realized that he never did look around at the apartment. His apartment. He dropped the bags next to the others in the front room and gave himself a tour. Living room: the couch Mother was sending him with against that wall, television opposite, and he could use his steamer-trunk as a coffee table. Bedroom to the left: queen bed under the window, oriented north to south, flanked by night stands, just like his bedroom at home. Huge closet. Ensuite bathroom. On the opposite side of the flat, a spare bedroom and guest bath. He wasn’t sure why he needed two bedrooms – he certainly didn’t have enough furniture to warrant so much as an office. Maybe his parents planned to drop in occasionally, although he seriously doubted that. The galley kitchen lay in between the two sleeping quarters. It looked spacious enough, and the stacked washer and dryer unit seemed new. 

He had the car unpacked and nearly all of the suitcases before his father made it to the unit. Carver wasn’t very helpful, to no one’s surprise, though he did order pizza, along with crazy bread and a two-liter of pop. Until the movers arrived, they had no dishes, so they ate off paper towels and drank soda from the bottle. Afterwards, Castiel remembered the travel mugs that were still in the car. “I remembered,” Carver said, “I just really enjoyed having a rare bonding moment with my son, doing something Naomi would hate!”

The movers arrived around 8:30, which shouldn’t have been possible, but they had worked super fast to get the hell out of Naomi’s house. They unloaded at a more leisurely pace. Castiel directed them; Carver sat on the front porch, chain-smoking and staring at his laptop. At some point, the upstairs neighbor came out onto the shared porch and offered Carver a beer, but Castiel was too busy to notice - not until he discovered the empty bottle the next morning, still out front and now crawling with ants. 

By midnight, the apartment was furnished, the closets were organized, the kitchen was coming together, and Castiel was beat. Carver had conked out on the couch shortly after the movers left. Castiel frowned at the man snoring on his (now, really _his_ ) couch. He had really wanted to get the house in order before bed, but he could feel his muscles twitching from exhaustion. He loaded the last of the dishes into the dishwasher. That would have to suffice. He still had to go grocery shopping tomorrow, but that was really all he had to do. His father would see him off to orientation before returning to Pontiac, and then Castiel would be all alone. 

He shivered. He hoped that was just another sign of sleep deprivation.

He made his bed and crawled in, filthy as he was. He put on a white-noise video and fell asleep.


	4. Back to School

**ImpalaASMR**

_“Hey guys. It’s Dean. I’ve gotten a lot of requests for a back-to-school video. I’ll tell ya, this video is as much for me, as it is for all of you. Tomorrow’s my first day of school since, whoo, since I dropped out of high school, so, like, five years? I dunno, it’s been a long time. I’m super freaked out, and I know I won’t sleep for crap tonight. So tonight I’m giving you a calm-down-for-sleep ASMR.”_

Castiel double-checked that he was watching an ImpalaASMR AllAges video. Which was silly, because this was the channel where Dean showed his face. Castiel was in luck- the video was brand-new, posted just fifteen minutes ago while Castiel had pottered about, laying out clothes and supplies for his first day of college. He had been on his own for almost a full week and he had watched the full catalogue of AllAges videos. Obviously, he got a certain pleasure from the AdultSkate videos, but he had to admit that he preferred the AllAges channel. He could lose himself in Dean’s gorgeous … well, everything. Eyes, smile, his smirk, and the way his eyes crinkled in the corners. And when he winked - god, Castiel suddenly understood the meaning of the phrase “sex appeal.” Dean had it. He was, undeniably, hot. He was so beautiful, it hurt. More than once, Castiel had felt a pang in his stomach, knowing that the man was completely out of reach. Even when - perhaps especially when - he watched the AllAges videos, he found himself falling asleep to fantasies of kissing those improbably pink lips. 

_“...I’ve got some brushes here,” and he holds one up. “I’m just going to brush. Your face. Like this.” He demonstrates on himself. His eyes fall closed and he makes a soft moaning sound. “Feels good. Just like that. No makeup. You’ve already washed your face. I don’t want to get it dirty again.” He opens his eyes and turns the brush back towards the camera, dabs it against each side. “Brush your cheeks. Your forehead. Down your cute nose. Your chin.” He busies himself with more brushing._

Castiel spun the personal attention into a fantasy. He let Dean tenderly, obliviously, pamper him until he came, Dean’s name on his lips.

***

Castiel woke early so he could mentally and physically prepare himself for the first day. He showered, dressed, put on a pot of coffee, ate some cereal. He flipped open his planner and read over his schedule: 

7:00 - wake up, shower, dress; coffee

8:00 - breakfast; deep breathing, if needed

9:00 - coat (wallet, keys,etc), backpack (pens, notebooks, PLANNER, Monday textbooks); leave house; bus to campus at 9:20

10:00 - ANTH 106, WES 3140 - Linguistics

11:00 - CLSX 105, WES 4037 - Near East

12:00 - lunch

13:00 - FMS 100, SUM 426 (1p-2:15p) - Film

14:00 - groceries (list on previous page)

15:00 - home; deep breathing, if needed

16:00 - review syllabi, homework assignments to planner; start assignments?

17:00 - ”

18:00 - ”

19:00 - ”

20:00 - dinner

21:00 - prep for tomorrow: planner, lay out clothes, coat (wallet, keys,etc), backpack (pens, notebooks, PLANNER, Tuesday textbooks)

22:00 - bed

Monday and Wednesday would be enjoyable. Those were the days he got to take “fun” classes. Tuesdays and Thursdays were given over to business courses. His mother was right to encourage him to enter a lucrative field. And yet. Castiel didn’t want to learn business, he didn’t want an MBA. He wanted to learn and teach and write… He consoled himself with a fact he’d picked up during campus visits: accounting professors made serious money, sometimes more than anyone else on campus. Meaning, he could go into accounting to please his mother, and still deserve her approval when he ultimately “changed gears” and opted to teach instead. In the meantime, he got to take the interesting humanities courses to fulfill his Gen Ed requirements. 

He grinned. He had a plan. 

***

What was the quote about best-laid plans? 

The bus was late. He spilled coffee on his tie, the blue one, and cleaning it off left a water spot on the silk; he wondered how uncouth it would be to flip it over. He barely made it to his first class on time. Fortunately, his morning classes were in the same building, and he had time to gather himself in between. He went to lunch feeling every bit as enthusiastic as he had at breakfast. He even arrived early to his Intro to Film class. The students from the previous class were just filing out. He had his pick of seats!

Secretly, he preferred the last row, so that he could see everything, but he knew that teachers tended to look on the denizens of the back row as troublemakers. Which he was not. He also knew that sitting too close to the front opened you up to ridicule from your classmates. Or so said every teen movie ever made. He didn’t like to take any chances, especially when he had no reason to settle for a subpar position. The chairs were arrayed on risers behind built-in desks. Castiel opted for a seat on the second tier, just to the right of the podium, nearly in the dead center of the room. He pulled out the textbook and a blank notebook and he arrayed half a dozen identical pens in front of him. Heaven forbid a pen run out of ink in the middle of class! He opened the notebook to the first page and wrote the course number and the date in the upper right-hand corner. 

By this time, the other students had begun arriving and choosing their own seats, but still no professor. Castiel glanced around the room and noticed that some people had water bottles and snacks in front of them. He had no snacks, but he did have some water left. He pulled the bottle out of his backpack- he would not want to rummage through the backpack during class. He was still bent over, zipping the backpack shut, when a voice whispered behind him, “Hey man, can I steal a pen off ya?”

Castiel sat up abruptly without thinking, and slammed it against the underside of the table. He barely registered the pain, but he heard the guy behind him wince audibly. 

“Oof. Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.”

Castiel turned his eyes towards the voice, confirmed the face matched. His vision whited out for a second, but not from head trauma. _You’re staring_ , he thought. _Stop staring._ He whipped his head back towards the front of the room. 

“You okay, buddy?”

“Um, yeah. Here,” passing a pen over his shoulder. _Breathe. Breathe._

“Thanks. I’m Dean, by the way.”

_Where is the teacher?_

“I know.”

“What?”

_Breathe._ He turned to face ImpalaASMR, in the flesh. In the gorgeous, green-eyed, freckly flesh. He held out his hand. “Castiel Edlund, nice to meet you.”

The professor chose that moment to enter the classroom. Castiel freed his hand and directed his attention to the front of the room. 

***

“You have another class after this?” Dean asked, handing the pen back to Castiel.

He shook his head. “No.”

“Can I buy you a coffee? ’Sthe least I can do after maybe giving you brain damage.”

“I have to go to the grocery store.”

“The grocery store will still be open. I’ll even give you a ride- I hafta pick up a few things anyway.”

Castiel hesitated. Getting coffee wasn’t in the schedule, even if it was part of a one-in-a-million coincidence. _Decide before he changes his mind!_ Snap decisions weren’t his specialty. “Y-yes,” he mumbled. “It’s not in the schedule, but yes. I’d like that.”

Dean blinked. “Okay then. There’s a cafe downstairs.” He led the way out of the classroom, but as the hallway widened, they walked abreast. “Look, you don’t have to sit down, either. You can just get your coffee and go if that’s-”

“No. I want to have coffee with you.”

Dean grinned, a thousand-watt smile that threw Castiel off-balance. “What’s your poison?”

Castiel shook his head, confused.

“I mean, what kind of coffee do you want?”

“Oh. Cream and two sugars.”

“Light and sweet, like you like your men?” Dean quipped.

“I don’t-”

Dean immediately apologized. “Oh, no, I didn’t mean to say you’re gay, dude! It was just a joke, something my mom used to say.”

Castiel cocked his head. “But I- I am gay. I think.” He squinted. “How could you have known-?”

Dean stopped walking. He stared at Castiel. “You’re- You are?” He spluttered. “I mean, I didn’t know. I guess I hoped but.” He chuckled, but he said nothing more.

“I just meant to say that I didn’t understand your reference. To the light and sweet coffee.” He smiled a soft smile. “I guess I do now, though.”

Dean threw an arm around Castiel’s shoulders and steered him towards the cafe.

“Red-eye, black, and an americano, room for cream.” While he waited for his total, Dean looked around at Castiel. “Hey, are you sticking around?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“Go snag those two comfy chairs in the corner. I’ll bring this over.”

Castiel did as he instructed. He sat in one and put his backpack in the other. Dean wasn’t far behind. He handed him a large cup, filled to the brim. “Cream and two sugars.” He lifted Castiel’s backpack and set it neatly on the floor. “Cheers, Cas.”

“Cheers,” Castiel echoed.

“First day, huh?”

“Yes.”

“Same here. You from Kansas?”

Castiel finished a sip and set his mug back in the saucer. “No, Illinois.”

“Ah. I was born in Lawrence. Been all over, but this has been home for the past five or six years. You a traditional student?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Right out of high school?”

“Yes?” He answered, unsure. When else would one go to college? “And you’re… not?”

“Yep. Tell you the truth,” he added, lowering his voice conspiratorially, “I dropped out of high school. Had to work. But my brother, man,” he beamed. “My brother Sammy is, like, the smartest kid you’ve ever seen. I thought I was gonna have to work myself to death to pay for his college, but damn if he didn’t get a full ride! So I figured, I had all this money saved up for him, maybe me and my GED should go to college, too. Better than sitting around watching porn and feeling sorry for myself.”

Castiel nodded, wide-eyed. He didn’t know how to respond to any of this.

“Hey, what’s your major?”

“Business.”

“Thought so. You dress like a fifty-year-old man. Like an accountant or something.”

Castiel brightened. “Yes, accounting! Or-” He paused, scowled. “Well, that’s what my parents are paying for.”

“You don’t want to.”

“The plan is, major in business, get an MBA, land a high-paying job. Personally,” this time it was Castiel who lowered his voice, “I’d rather teach. I’m told that accounting professors can ‘write their own ticket,’” he finished with airquotes and a wink.

Dean grinned. “Good for you, buddy. Me, I’m thinking Communications, unless they let me into the Engineering program.” 

Castiel nodded again. He went for a sip of coffee and discovered it was empty.

“Time to get going?” Dean asked. He drained his own mug and grimaced. “Yeah, that’s the stuff.” But he seemed happy about it. “My car is at the bottom of the hill. Assuming you still want a ride?”

***

Dean’s car was old and black. Not old like the Taurus. Vintage old. Shiny. He clearly took great care of it.

“This is my baby,” Dean said as he climbed into the driver’s seat. He ran his hands along the steering wheel. “She’s a classic. 1967 Chevy Impala.”

“Oh, that kind of Impala,” Castiel blurted, buckling his seat belt.

“What’s that now?”

Castiel blushed. “I mean.” He sighed. “ImpalaASMR.”

If Castiel went red, Dean went white. “Oh you- Huh.” He thumped the steering wheel with his thumbs. “Um, listen, I- uh.” He seemed to be having difficulty choosing the right words. “Well, you know.” And that was the end of the conversation, apparently. He cranked the ignition. “Do you like Zeppelin?” He didn’t wait for a response before flipping on the music. 

They didn’t speak again until they pulled in at the grocery store.

“I can take the bus-” Castiel offered.

“Nah, it’s fine.” Dean followed Castiel inside. Castiel took a cart; Dean grabbed a basket. Where Castiel had a list and bought everything on it without dithering, Dean took very few items, seemingly (to Castiel) at random, and only after carefully pricing them against the store brand or exclaiming over a deal. “Ooh, buy one get one,” he’d mutter occasionally. Castiel didn’t really understand his excitement, but he nevertheless found it charming. At least until he saw Dean put something back with a frown and a “Nope, next paycheck.” Cashews. Not on sale, no cheap store brand. Castiel snuck a canister into his cart.

At checkout, Castiel went first. When the cashier got to the bar separating their orders, Castiel told her, “That one, too.” Dean was looking at the magazines and didn’t notice. 

“ID?”

“What?” Castiel was looking at Dean.

“For the beer. I need to see your ID.”

Dean snapped back to reality. “Oh that’s mine.”

“But if he’s paying for it, I need to see his ID,” the cashier explained. 

Castiel turned red and stammered. “I was trying to do a nice thing. I didn’t know he had beer. Sorry.” He felt deflated.

Dean laughed. “Dude, Cas, you don’t have to buy my groceries.” He smiled at the cashier, the full force of his charm on display. “This whole basket is mine; my friend here doesn’t even drink beer. Can he have the total without it?”

She frowned, but she took Castiel’s money for everything but the beer. Dean bought his 6-pack, and they returned to the car.

“Where to, Cas?”

Castiel gave him the address. When Dean laughed, he asked, “Do you know where that is?”

“Yeah, I think I can find it.”

They pulled into Castiel’s apartment complex. “Lemme help you with your bags,” Dean offered, smirking. He reached into the trunk and grabbed the two farthest to the left in one hand.

“Those are your bags,” Castiel observed. 

Dean didn’t respond, just took a couple more bags in his other hand and followed Castiel to his front door. Standing there on his doormat, he could - had he wanted to - knock on his and his neighbor’s simultaneously. The upstairs door was at ground level, leading to an interior staircase. Castiel knew he shared a porch, he knew he had an upstairs neighbor, but he really hadn’t considered the situation any further than that.

Castiel opened the door and took his load inside. Dean didn’t move, and Castiel started to wonder if he should invite him in. Dean passed him the last of his bags through the doorway and said, “It was nice meeting you. I hope we run into each other again soon.”

“You too. I mean. Thanks.”

Dean gave him a jaunty salute. And put his keys into the door immediately to the right of Castiel’s door.

Castiel stared, confused. “You live upstairs. From me.”

Dean winked and pulled his door open and shut without another word.


	5. Howdy, Neighbor

**ImpalaASMR**

_“ImpalaASMR AllAges. Howdy, Neighbor.”_

_The screen goes black, when there comes a soft knocking. Someone fumbles with a chain, then there’s the creak of a door._

Cas recognized the same porch outside his front door, though the patio furniture on-screen was different. He checked the date uploaded: six months ago. His heart stuttered anyway, imagining an alternate reality in which he himself was the neighbor. 

_“Hey, I’m Dean. I live next door. Listen, can I borrow a cup of sugar?” He laughs at himself and he ducks his head. “Yeah, I know, it’s so cliche. I was doing some baking, see, and- what’s that? What was I baking? Oh. I’m making a pie. Among other things. Pie, cobbler, muffins. A friend of mine gave me a whole bunch of fruit from her trees, and I want to cook them up so they don’t go bad. Do you like apple pie? Me too. I like any kind of pie, of course. You too? Good. Good good good. I’ll be sure to bring you some. Do you bake? Yeah? Oh you’d like to help? That’s great, thanks!” He hefts a bag of sugar from off-screen. “I’ll carry this. Grab your coat, it’s cold outside. Hat, scarf, mittens. Wouldn’t want you to catch a cold.” The crunching of snow under heavy boots, and the sound of wind._

Cas, knowing the layout of the apartment complex, detected the movie magic that made it look like they were approaching a separate house altogether. 

_“Here’s my house. What’s that? Oh, my car? Aww, I knew you had good taste,” he says, winking at the camera, before turning the camera on the car. “That’s my baby. 1967 Chevrolet Impala. 327 four barrel, 275 horses. Been in my family for almost fifty years. I take care of her, and she takes care of me.” The pride he feels for the vehicle is evident in his voice. He picks up a white rag and wipes at an invisible spot on the car’s sleek black flank. She really gleams._

Cas felt a swell of sympathetic joy in her beauty. 

_“When the weather warms up, we should take a drive. Get out on some back roads and really open her up.” He winks again._

The scene moved inside to Dean’s kitchen. Cas could see that the apartment above him was laid out almost exactly like his own. This shouldn’t have surprised him, but it felt jarring nonetheless. 

_On-camera, Dean inhales deeply and sighs, “Smells amazing in here, huh? Cinnamon, allspice, cloves. Lemme get you a mug of mulled cider.” For a couple of minutes, he aims the camera at a pot of amber liquid, dotted with whole spices and a slice of lemon. He stirs with a well-worn wooden spoon._

The sound of the swirling cider tickled Cas’ brain. 

_At length, Dean opens a cabinet next to the stove and extracts an oversized mug. He ladles the cider into the mug._

Cas watched as the eddies faded away. 

_“Here you go. Hot apple cider. Ooh, watch the steam; it’s hot,” he remarks, as the camera fogs. “Cinnamon, allspice, cloves, star anise, and lemon.” He makes up a mug for himself, too, inhaling deeply of the fragrance. “Aahh. So warm, so soothing. I could smell that all day,” and he breathes in again. His face shines with a wholesome ecstasy. His eyes roll back and he moans. “Don’t you just love it?” He sips at his drink, then sets it aside. “Tell you the truth, sometimes I put cider on the stove, even if I don’t want to drink it. It makes the whole house smell like apple pie, but without the hassle of rolling out pastry. Oh, speaking of.”_

_He pans over a counter full of pie-making paraphernalia and past a waiting pie pan, and he holds up a bowl of apple slices. “Apples, cinnamon, lemon juice, and just a pinch of salt. But it still needs sugar.” He takes up a quarter-cup measure and digs into the bag of sugar. The crystals inside crunch. He scoops once, sprinkles the contents onto the apple slices; scoops again, sprinkles. He puts a cup of sugar into the apple mixture, then plays with the sugar for another moment, scooping and sprinkling it back into the bag. It sparkles as it falls. “There.” He folds the apple slices with a large wooden spoon. “Let’s get this into the pie shell.” He takes a tea towel from the counter, revealing an assortment of leaf shapes cut from pastry. “Just gonna lay these on top.” Then he beats an egg, whisking slower and longer than necessary for the tingles, and brushes the exposed crust on top of the pie with the eggwash. He mixes up some cinnamon and sugar, layering it over the pie a pinch at a time._

_The oven door creaks open, the pie goes in, and Dean turns to the camera again. “So what should we do while we wait?” He asks so earnestly, but with a smoulder that shoots straight through Castiel. “How’s your cider? Still hot?” He picks up his own mug and blows across the surface, sending a thin plume of steam into the air. “Mmmm.” He sips at the drink. “Oh? Oh no, you have to leave so soon? Ah,” he sighs, looking genuinely disappointed. “No, I understand. I’m so glad you were able to pop in. Go do what you have to do, and come back for dessert. We’ll have hot, sweet, sticky … pie, when you get back. Can’t wait to see you then! Bye!”_

_He waves and blows a kiss, as the scene fades._

***

Since that grocery trip in which he learned the identity of his upstairs neighbor, Cas had endeavored to be on the porch as often as possible, but casually. Unfortunately, Castiel did nothing casually. He’d found a nice set of wrought-iron garden chairs and a little table to fit the space. He started having his morning coffee there. After school, he stayed outside with his laptop while he studied or wrote. When next Cas saw Dean passing into or out of his apartment, he’d be as friendly as possible. He wanted desperately to flirt with him, but he didn’t know how, exactly, to do that. He figured that inviting Dean to study with him seemed safest. 

But Cas didn’t see Dean for almost two weeks after that grocery trip, and Cas worried. Worried about Dean, mostly, but also worried that Dean was avoiding him. Dean was entirely responsible for Castiel instructing his profs to call him “Cas.” He would be heartbroken to answer to the nickname if the bestower had decided he wanted nothing to do with him, after all. His handwritten notes for film class session #4 included a list of reasons Dean didn’t want to see him.

1 offended bc groceries

2 weirded out that I know his online persona

3 thinks I’m weird

4 ” ” ” bc I know his online persona

5 thinks I’m boring 

6 doesn’t want to be friends

7 dropping this class

8 keeps different hours than me and it’s a TOTAL COINCIDENCE that I haven’t seen him

9 hates me

10

Dean reappeared the next day. Castiel was outside, as usual, when Dean walked up to his front door.

“Heya, Cas.”

“Hello, Dean. You haven’t been in class.”

He shrugged. “Been working.”

Castiel squinted at him. “Are you dropping out?”

“What? No. I just-“ He sighed out a long breath and scrubbed his hair. “Sammy’s bills came due, and it was a lot more than I expected. Free ride, my ass,” Dean grumbled. “Hey, do you have the notes for film class?”

Cas held up a finger to say, _one moment, please._ “There, I sent them to your email.”

“You have them on your computer? I thought you took notes with, like, pen and paper.”

“Of course. I write them longhand during class and then I type them out that night. It’s a useful study technique.”

“Ah. Gotcha.”

“Did you want me to go over them with you? I could put on a pot of coffee?”

Dean mimed checking his non-existent watch before refusing. “I’d love to, but I got a thing.” He waved at his door. “Rain check?”

Cas suspected he was lying to avoid him, but he put on a fake smile and replied, “Sure. Another time.”

Dean returned the smile with a genuine one. “Okay. Later, Cas. G’night.”

“Good night, Dean.”

Castiel felt slightly less justified in thinking Dean a liar when he saw ImpalaASMR post a new video. He didn’t feel any less disappointed, though. He clicked play.

_“Hey, how’s it going? Yeah, I heard you had a rough day. I’m glad you called me. I came right over. You still look pretty agitated. Let’s get you calmed down. Here, let me take your coat. I’ll hang it up where you like it. There.” Then he tsks. “You must be out-of-sorts, wearing your coat inside. Oh, your shoes, too.” He clicks his tongue again. “Tsk tsk tsk tsk tsk. Give me your foot. And the other one. Better?” He moves a pair of boots to the side and asks, “Do you want to tell me about your day?” His eye contact is intense but validating. He seems to be listening intently; meanwhile, the sound of a foot massage rustles through the speakers. “Yeah? Ugh, yeah, that sucks. Are you okay now, though? Right. Okay, first off, take a deep breath.” He demonstrates. “And let it go.” He leads his friend in a few more deep breaths. “Good. Can I get you something to drink? Tea? Okay.” He disappears for a moment, and soft music begins playing in the background. Something instrumental. “I’m back. Here. It’s hot; blow on it.” The sound of tea being breath-cooled, then a small slurping sound. “I got some for me, too.” The same breath sounds, but on-camera. “Good stuff. I just grabbed whatever was closest to the kettle. Smells like chamomile: sweet, flowery. Tastes like honey? Yes, I did put some honey in it. Is it too much?” he whispers, solicitous for his friend’s comfort. “No? It’s good? Good. Good good good good.” He sips more tea, then sets it down. “Whenever I had a rough day when I was a little kid, I remember my mom petting my hair and telling me everything would be okay. Would you like me to try that? You would? Alright.” He reaches forward and rubs the double-header microphone to simulate a scalp massage. “How’s that? Good. Relaaaaax, you’re saaaafe. Everything is going to be. Just. Fine.” He trails off, alternating between a head massage and scratching the “scalp.” He mostly watches what his hands are doing off-screen_.

But sometimes he looked right into the camera, and the smile he gave at those moments sent a wave of warmth through Cas. It was not so much a relaxing sensation – rather more energizing than calming – but any tension he felt melted away under that electric gaze.

Cas watched the video to the end, then he replayed it, leaving it on while he wrote up his Intro to Accounting notes. Later, he fell asleep to it. Obviously, he was not the friend being soothed, but if he squinted, he could almost believe it was recorded just for him.

***

“You made it to class.” Cas had watched him slip into the classroom just as the professor turned off the lights to begin the lecture.

Dean shrugged. “Guess I better get my money’s worth, huh?”

Cas lowered his eyes and gave Dean a small smile. “You don’t need the notes today?”

“Nope, wrote my own,” he declared, brandishing a sheaf of loose-leaf paper.

There was a short silence, then Dean cleared his throat and looked away. “Anyway, I, uh, I have to hit the library.”

“You’re not going home?”

“Not yet. Otherwise, I’d offer you a ride. You know.”

“Right. No, I know,” Cas stammered. “I’ll see you around.”

“Yeah. See you around.” Dean shoved his papers into his backpack and bolted out the door. 

Cas was left to wonder once again if Dean regretted their acquaintance. He worried that he was just an annoying neighbor, in class and in real life.

His concerns didn’t stop him from occupying his seat on the shared porch, though. He was there, not twenty-four hours later, when Dean strolled up to his door. He waved, and Cas waved awkwardly back.

“Heya Cas, whatcha working on?”

“Accounting problems, but I’m about to give up and look at my film notes. Would you want to join me?”

With midterms approaching, Dean accepted gratefully. 

Dean plopped himself down on a patio chair and began pulling notebooks out of his backpack. “Man, I’m so far behind. I haven’t even started on the Top 100 movies we’re supposed to be watching. I mean, I have seen a lot of those movies, but it’s been a while.” 

“Have you decided which film you’re doing your final paper on?” Cas asked.

Dean rubbed the back of his neck. “I was gonna grab one that I’ve already seen,” he replied, looking a bit embarrassed. “Not that I have time for a rewatch.”

An unseasonably cold breeze ruffled Castiel’s papers. It gave him an idea. “It’s too windy out here. We should go inside. I’ve got all one hundred in one form or another- your choice.”

“Works for me,” Dean said, collecting his things and shuffling his chair backwards. It made an awful scraping noise on the concrete. Cas winced, but Dean didn’t notice. He was already waiting by the twin front doors, his back to his own. 

Cas let them both in. “Shoes off. If you don’t mind,” he added, but with an air that belied the pleasantries. Dean obliged. “And, um, make yourself at home, I guess,” waving towards the sofa. “Which film should I put on?”

Dean consulted the list. “Hmm. Part of me wants to pick something really sexy, ya know? Like _Rebel Without a Cause_ \- young Brando, Natalie Wood.” Cas nodded, noncommittal. Dean kept skimming. “Or a cowboy movie. _Butch Cassidy_ , _Midnight Cowboy_.” He grinned at the page. “Hell yeah, love that shit.” He sighed. “I’ll probably go with something stupid I’ve seen a million times, though. _Star Wars_ or _Raiders of the Lost Ark_. Feels like a cop-out, but whatever.”

Cas bristled slightly. “ _Raiders_ isn’t stupid.”

“Nah, I love it, but it’s not exactly art, is it?” He looked up at Cas then, and his eyes widened. “Shit, that’s what you’re doing, huh?”

Cas nodded. “I wanted to write about a more contemporary film, something from a living director. Spielberg seemed the obvious choice; it was just a matter of narrowing down my options. _Jaws_ and _ET_ felt too … light.”

“And _Schindler’s List_ is depressing.”

“No. My mother’s maternal grandmother was a survivor. I’m not afraid of writing about the Holocaust. I meant that they seemed rather light on symbolism. In fact, I decided that _Schindler’s List_ was too heavy on symbolism and would be difficult to write about succinctly.”

Dean raised his hands in apology. “Do you think we could both write about _Raiders_? I could watch that.”

Cas’ face softened. “I’ll go get the DVD.”

While the movie played, Dean sat cross-legged at the coffee table, occasionally scribbling down notes. Cas sat on the sofa, his knees huddled up to his chest. Tall though he was, in this position he took up only one cushion. Just leaving room for Dean, should he decide to move off the floor, he thought. 

Cas meant to take notes; he really did. Instead, he spent the movie watching Dean.

“They’re digging in the wrong place!” Dean cried, along with Sallah. He looked up to see if Cas had also recited the words. Cas had not, and was rather startled, in fact- he hadn’t been paying attention to the dialogue. But he grinned back at Dean. His enthusiasm was contagious. Cas slunk down to the floor to sit beside him, and Dean bumped him playfully with his shoulder before turning back to the movie. 

Cas leaned back against the sofa. He felt his cheeks heat up, and he dipped his eyes to his notebook. He still had barely any notes on the film, but he had made a few doodles. A swatch of plaid. A freckled cheek. A hand. He quickly pulled his knees up again to shelter the paper from view. He turned the page, wrote RAIDERS OF THE LOST ARK at the top of the new sheet, listed out a few notes about Dr Jones’ adventures thus far: 

Steven Spielberg, dir

George Lucas, co-writer, also Lawrence Kasdan

Idol / ball / booby traps in general

“Throw me the idol, I’ll throw you the whip.” Sexual tension???

Not how archaeology works - grave robbing and treasure hunting

Marion - love interest, tough, not conventional damsel - compare to Indy’s relationships with men

Why a monkey?

Nazis --------\

Snakes ---------- parallels?

Pharaohs ---/

Bad dates

“What’re you writing?”

Cas jumped. “Oh. Just notes.”

Dean craned his head to look. “You’re writing fast, that’s all. This is all I have so far.” He tilted his notebook to reveal half a page of neat text, set off by time stamps. 

“Efficient,” Cas replied.

“Yeah? I try. Don’t have a lot of time to work on this.” He stretched. “What time is it, anyway? Shit, I have an appointment in an hour.”

“You have to go?”

“Nah, I can finish the movie, but then I gotta scoot.” He tapped his fingers on the table. “Actually, I probably should find some dinner. Thanks anyway,” and he started scooping up his belongings.

“I could order pizza.”

Dean paused. “Cas, I can’t let you do that.”

“I need dinner, too,” he shrugged.

Dean looked at him for a long moment. “Okay. Thanks, man. I appreciate it.”

Cas shrugged again. “Don’t mention it.” 

***

“Marion, don't look at it. Shut your eyes, Marion. Don't look at it, no matter what happens!”

**DING DONG DING DONG DING DONG**

Castiel checked his watch, sighed heavily. He stood.

“Thirty minutes or it’s free, right?” Dean joked.

“It has been twenty-nine, and they don’t do that anymore.”

“Bummer.”

Castiel took the pizzas from the woman at the door and gave her a twenty and a ten. “Thank you.” He slid the boxes onto the coffee table. “Sorry, I thought it would get here sooner.”

“Better late than never,” Dean said through a bite of pizza.

Cas took a slice from the other box. 

“Pineapple has no place on a pizza, man,” Dean scoffed.

He didn’t respond immediately. He chewed thoughtfully. 

“I’m kidding, you know.”

Cas swallowed. He took a sip of water. “I’m aware,” he deadpanned.

“Huh. Okay. Just checking. D’you want a slice of pepperoni?”

“No, I don’t eat pork.”

“Ah.”

The energy between them had turned weird all of a sudden, now that the movie was over and Dean had to leave. And here was Castiel, seeming to pick a fight. He cleared his throat. “So, uh. Do you have what you need for the paper? You can borrow the DVD if you need to.”

Dean was bolting a third piece of pizza, but he nodded. He drank some water. “Yeah, no, I don’t have a DVD player.”

“You can watch it here if you need to,” Cas answered, too quickly. “I’m almost always home by 4. And once I’m home, I don’t leave. It’s kind of an issue.” He trailed off.

“Oh. Okay. Well. Thanks, Cas.” He patted the closest part of Cas, which happened to be his knee. It felt very intimate, and not at all. Cas was confused by the gesture. “Listen, I gotta go. Thanks for feeding me and for the movie. I, uh, I’ll take you up on that offer, ’kay?”

“Okay, Dean.” He was staring, watching Dean as he stood, gathered his notebooks, put on his shoes. Dean was almost out the door when Cas remembered to move. “Wait, your pizza!”

“Oh no, I couldn’t.”

“I literally will not eat it,” he insisted, standing before Dean and shoving the box into his hands. “Please.”

“Man.” He seemed to squirm. “You really don’t hafta-”

“No, I don’t. But I can. And it was, two for one, essentially.”

Dean looked down at the box in his hands and huffed a laugh. “Yeah. Okay. Thanks, Cas. I owe you one.”

“You really don’t,” he declared. So earnest. _Just accept the banal niceties and move on_ , he screamed at himself. _And stop staring._

But Dean was looking back into his eyes, with an earnestness of his own, and Cas felt even more confused. “Ahem. Anyway. Thanks, Cas. See you tomorrow.”

“See you tomorrow.” Dean was already out the door.


	6. The Handmaidens’ Tale

**ASMR Moondoor Queen**

_“All hail ASMR Moondoor Queen.”_

The line sent a thrill through Cas, as he realized for the first time that the voice belonged to Dean. So they were friends? Or just collaborators? He searched her playlists for any videos featuring ImpalaASMR, but found none. 

Curious, he clicked on a recent upload titled “Handmaiden Induction. NOT ASMR.” He faintly remembered her talking about handmaidens in a previous video. The video opened the same as all of the others, despite the alternative genre. He discovered that the Moondoor videos were something of a cross between a documentary and a home movie, but set in some sort of historical re-enactment. He paused to check the description: “LARPing.” “Live-action role playing,” according to the internet. Moondoor was part of a game? _Hmm_. He hit Play again.

_Someone has won a “trip” to “Moondoor” to be the Queen’s “handmaiden.” The first ten minutes of the video involve Charlie introducing the winner - Gilda - and overseeing her makeover. When the woman is dressed in her finery, she gets a few basic etiquette lessons on how to interact with the queen, other members of the court, and the rabble._

_“You’re not a concubine, not any sort of consort to the queen,” Charlie rushes to clarify, “but you’re a part of the Queen’s household, like a-”_

_“A paid friend?” Gilda interjects. She laughs, a cheerful tinkling sound._

_Charlie laughs, too. “You’re not wrong! I like this one,” she calls over her shoulder to the person who has just ducked through the tent flap._

_Dean._

What was he wearing? It looked like a leather tunic, cinched with a wide belt, from which hung a sword. A real sword? Or just a scabbard with a faux hilt? Cas couldn’t be sure, but the effect was … impressive. He wore mail around his collarbones, bracers on his forearms, tight breeches, and tall leather boots.

_“Almost done with handmaiden orientation?” he asks._

_“Yep. Gilda, this is Dean, another of my handmaidens. Yes, he’s a man; yes, we love and accept him anyway,” throwing Dean a teasing smirk._

_He sticks his tongue out at her in a brotherly way, then extends his hand to Gilda. She takes it, but instead of shaking her hand, her turns her fingers downward, bows low, and kisses the back of her hand. “M’lady Gilda, I have the honor of escorting you around the faire today.”_

_Charlie feigns jealousy. “How dare you greet her before you greet your queen?” In response, he taps his forehead with his palm, then runs towards Charlie, picking her up in a huge hug and spinning her around. “Not like that!” she squeals, laughing almost too hard for speech. He puts her down, and she swats at his shoulder. “Do it right!”_

_“You’re not in character yet. Until then, you get the sister treatment.” He bows again and offers his arm to Gilda. She lays her hand on his extended forearm and allows him to lead her out of the tent. Charlie rolls her eyes at the camera, and the scene cuts._

_The action moves to the jousting field, where several mounted knights mill about, testing the weight and balance of their lances or chatting with the audience._

_Charlie appears, now obviously the Queen, and her handmaidens fall in behind her. Dean and Gilda are attached at the hip, prompting theatrics amongst the royal court. Someone whispers a little too loudly about Maintaining Appearances; another insinuates that Gilda is disrespecting the queen by getting too cozy with her One Male Handmaiden, strongly implying that Dean is her not-so-secret consort._

It looked to be a bit, a loosely scripted improvisational palace intrigue. Cas wondered if Gilda was in on the joke. 

_The drama takes a turn when the Queen pulls Gilda to her side and sends Dean on an errand. The two whisper together, and there is a flirtatious element to their banter. The joust begins, and Gilda disappears, only to reappear later with Dean, far from the Queen’s line of sight. Thus follows some kind of sketch in which both of them compete for the attentions of the new handmaiden._

_In the end, Gilda wins a seat in the royal box, at the Queen’s right hand, and Dean is forced to take to the jousting field to reclaim his honor. He has a borrowed horse, cast-off armor, and no squire, but he squares off with the Queen’s champion nonetheless. His opponent’s lance shatters against his chest; he is unseated; he is vanquished. He bows to the Queen and betakes himself from the field in further disgrace, only to keel over before reaching the opposite end of the pitch. A cry rises from the assembled crowd. A weapons master rushes to him and removes his helmet to reveal blood pooling at his throat. Has he been injured by a shard?_

_The Queen stands, begs to hear how fares her friend. The weapons master faces her, head bowed, hat in hand, and informs her, “Your Majesty, he is dead.”_

Cas’ vision whited out, and he gasped. “No,” he whispered. Frantic, his eyes darted to the upload date: “One week ago.” He had seen Dean since then. He breathed out, several deep breaths, but he still felt agitated. He let out a sob, flapped his hands until he could breathe normally again. He wiped his eyes and hit Play. 

_On screen, the very earth seems to shake with collective grief. The royal court wails as one, and the Queen, composing herself, announces with tears in her eyes and in her voice, “I have wronged a good man this day. Henceforth, let the name and deeds of Dean of Winchester not be looked upon with shame and malice, but with the honor befitting a beloved member of this court. May you rest in peace, favorite son and handmaiden of Moondoor! Hail, Dean of Winchester!”_

_“Hail, Dean of Winchester!” shouts the crowd in unison._

_The body is removed from whence it lays, and the Queen and Gilda huddle together, unceremoniously, each supporting the other._

_Elsewhere, a camera trained on the bloody and battered face of Dean captures him breaking character with a wink._

Cas sighed again, relieved, if a tiny bit furious at the actors’ trickery, and at himself for being gullible.

_The video ends with a short debriefing from Charlie, thanking Gilda and Dean for their incredible acting, and to everyone who participated in the day’s festivities, and especially to her Patronus supporters and Tutube subscribers. “Watch our website for future events! Peace out, bitches!”_


	7. Patronus

**ImpalaASMR**

Cas had heard a lot about Patronus. He understood that it was a way for Tutubers to make money on the side, outside of Tutube’s advertising structures and their restrictive terms of service. But he didn’t really understand how it all worked. He kept meaning to ask Dean, but he always acted so skittish whenever the topic of money arose. 

Which was ridiculous. On top of paying his rent and all of his school fees, Castiel’s parents gave him an allowance of $200 per week, of which he never spent half. Meanwhile, Dean had no allowance, barely a part-time job at his buddy’s garage, and he was paying his own rent, plus tuition and school fees for two, and fueling himself and that gas-guzzler from whatever he had in savings. Castiel had plenty, and he wanted to share, but Dean was proud. He had tried buying him groceries; Dean avoided him for a week. He had tried sending him home with leftovers; Dean skipped class the next day. He’d offered to do his laundry - a perfectly reasonable offer, thought Cas, and only tangentially related to Castiel’s desire to save Dean a few quarters in the process - and Dean had responded by acting scandalized at the idea of Cas seeing his unmentionables.

One Wednesday, after another disappointing film class _sans_ Dean, Cas resolved to contribute to Dean’s Patronus anyway. After all, it could be done anonymously, right?

Well, it could not be done completely anonymously. Cas had to create a login. He disguised himself as best he could. He signed in as Clarence. Only Meg had ever called him that, though he never really understood why. He worried that he would have to give his real name to run his credit card, but the site assured him that his credit card information was used only by Patronus and that the artists and tradespeople he supported had no access to his personal data. Cas sighed. Even so, he was relieved that the credit card named him only as C Shurley, as it was technically his father’s card, issued under his legal name. “Clarence Shurley” was an appropriate alias. Once he had cleared the financial and legal hurdles associated with opening an account, he bent his browser to Dean’s Tutube channel and the link to his Patronus.

Castiel groaned when he saw the long list of options available to him. How to choose? He could sign up for a monthly contribution, with different pledge levels granting him access to different sorts of videos. He scrolled past the $1 monthly, $1 weekly, $2 monthly, $2 weekly. These gave him earlier access to AllAges videos, all the way up to the $5 a week tier. After $10 a week, he could get a “shout-out” in new videos. After $50 a month, he could submit ideas for videos into a monthly drawing. 

That seemed to be the end of the page, but the scroll bar indicator was still pegged around the middle of the range. Cas scrolled further, past an image of the generic Patronus footer. A screenful of blank space followed, and then numbers reappeared. These were nearly identical to those at the top of the page, but these were for the AdultSkate videos, and the prices had gone up by a factor of ten. 

“ _This_ is how he makes a living,” Cas hissed through his teeth. He was torn between a prudish distaste for what was clearly some sort of prostitution, and relief that Dean would not go hungry. 

And he kept scrolling. 

Towards the end of the page, he found more options. For $1000, a Patron could make suggestions for Patronus-only videos, ones that would never reach Tutube. The implication being that these weren’t limited to puritanical broadcast standards. Cas clicked on the thumbnail next to this tier and received a pop-up message: 

“This preview is for AdultSkate Patrons only! Please subscribe to continue.” 

But he didn’t need to watch the hidden video to see that the thumbnail showed a shirtless Dean, rather than a flickering candle or a suggestive still life of ripe, juicy peaches. So these videos probably contained nudity. Cas blushed, yet continued scrolling. 

The last two tiers appeared to be based on a bidding system. The highest monthly bidder in the first of the auction options got to select which Patronus-only video Dean would make for his top-tier Patrons, from all $1000-subscriber suggestions. But the highest monthly bidder in the second auction received an exclusive video chat. One one-on-one video per month, to the highest bidder. Cas couldn’t understand why this should be the last tier, when every other option had seemed to escalate in value. How much was anyone really willing to pay to chat with a Tutuber? 

Castiel scrolled back to the top of the page. He selected a few options, one for each type of reward: $5 a week for early access, $25 a month to be credited in the comments of new videos, and $50 to recommend video ideas.

He went to save his subscriptions, but he hesitated. He scrolled back down to the AdultSkate options. He added another $50 a month for early access and hit Save before he could reconsider. He got another pop-up: 

“Thanks for becoming a Patron! You are subscribed to: 

$5/week - early access

$25/month - shout-out (comments)

$50/month - video suggestions (monthly drawing)

***$50/month*** - ***ADULTSKATE early access***

Please visit ‘My Account’ page for video links and billing information.”

One hundred fifty-five dollars a month to his friend, and on both of their own terms. Cas was pleased, knowing Dean wouldn’t know but wouldn’t object, either. 

He closed the pop-up and scrolled down to the auctions. He paused at the preview that had been blocked and he clicked it again. A 15-second video popped up. In this larger view, Dean was indeed shirtless. He was, in fact, naked, except for a swatch of pink fabric over his crotch. When Cas hit Play, Dean turned a bold smouldering gaze upon the camera, rubbing at the shiny pink cloth. He dipped his hands under the waistband of what were - obviously, now - panties, and freed his cock, hard and almost purple. He stroked himself, tipped his head back, moaned … and froze.

Cas stared, open-mouthed. His own cock twitched, and he shut the laptop with too much force. His mouth felt dry. He didn’t dare move for a long moment. This was his friend, his neighbor, his classmate! He had seen too much! 

He stood slowly from his kitchen table. He sat back down. He reached down to touch himself through his white cotton boxers. He was fully hard, and the tip was wet against the fabric. For a moment he was grateful for his habit of dressing down upon returning home for the night, and not sitting here in his suit and tie, contemplating what he was contemplating. He unbuttoned his fly and brought himself off, replaying the 15-second snippet in his head and watching in his mind’s eye as he and Dean came together, their cries of ecstasy a sweet duet in his imagination.


	8. Tarot Reading

**The Eastwind Witch**

_“So, sweeties, that’s our collective tarot reading for the coming month. Of course, if you are not subscribed to my Patronus, you’re a week behind on these predictions.” The Eastwind Witch clucks her tongue and waggles an exquisitely manicured talon at the camera. She grins like a wily Cheshire cat. “And if you are not subscribed to my channel, what on earth are you waiting for? Just chime the wee bell in the corner, that’s a dear. Until next time!” She blinks her eyes and disappears in a puff of purple smoke, as always._

Castiel liked the reading he’d just heard. He tended to distrust psychics and witches, but he could appreciate a seer that purported to tell the bad with the good. This month, if the Eastwind Witch was to be believed, would be a rollercoaster ride. She had seen the _“pleasant tete-a-tete with a neighbor you’re wanting to know better”_ of the previous week, followed by the _“little disappointments”_ of this week, which he felt described Dean’s absence from class. He should expect to take those disappointments as the push he needs to act on his goodwill- giving to Dean’s Patronus? He’d ride that good feeling for a day or so. Then would come a full week of confusion and despair, culminating in an overwhelming fear which would drive him to great heights and brave feats. And after all of that, as if a summer storm passing away, the outlook would clear again, and a gentle contentedness would reign for the foreseeable future.

If he was mapping out this prediction correctly, the week of confusion and despair would be upon him any minute. He weighed his options: he could let it happen, or he could search out better answers. Opting for the latter, he clicked the link to her Patronus. 

He found a similar tier structure here, from token subscriptions for early access, to higher rates for shout-outs and participation in the process. Her mid-range fees promised special Patronus-only proxy sessions and invitations to livestreams, and she also had an auction option. The highest bidder got whatever special magical object she had to offer that month; October bidders could win a pair of “lightly cursed” ruby earrings, as well as a book of charms that she claimed could mitigate the effects of the curse or even re-direct its power against the wearer’s enemies. Towards the upper range, Castiel saw what he was looking for: one-on-one consultations. These came at a flat rate of $250, which, following his overzealous pledges to ImpalaASMR, would put a real strain on his finances. _I shouldn’t_. He tapped the table as he mulled it over. “Well, maybe I could just look at her availability for the week,” he mumbled.

She had one opening left for the month, and it was at 7 that evening. Cas checked the clock. 6:54. He decided it was kismet and requested the consultation. 

At 7, his laptop sang a chime he didn’t recognize, and a window opened, revealing a slim, haughty woman of indeterminable age, with impeccable - if ostentatious - eye makeup and cherry red lips. “Hello, dearie, is this Clarence?”

Cas cleared his throat and stammered, “Yes, I’m Clarence.”

She squinted her eyes at him and pursed her lips. “Hmm. But who are you _really_ , dear?”

He turned red and dropped his eyes to his hands, folded in his lap. “I, um. Clarence is a pseudonym, ma’am. My name is Castiel. Cas.”

She smiled and looked fit to purr with smug pride. “Aye, I thought so. And since you’ve been so good as to tell me your name, I’ll tell you mine. It’s Rowena, dear, and only ‘Rowena.’ Let’s have no more of this ‘ma’am’ business.”

“No, of course not. Rowena,” he repeated.

“Very well, what did you want to see me about today, Castiel?”

“Ah, well, I watched your October tarot reading, and it fit the pattern I’ve seen this month so far, and-”

“When?”

“I’m sorry?”

“When did you watch it?”

“This evening.”

“Today. For the first time?”

“Yes.”

She shook her head with a smile, and her long hair flounced prettily. “Go on, then.”

“Well, I was wondering- If the reading is accurate,” and he would have sworn her eyebrow arched at the _if_ , “that is. Um. I wanted to know more about this week of torment and doubt.” 

“‘Confusion and despair.’”

“Right. That. I wondered if you could give me further insight into … what that might mean.”

She smiled again, coy as a cat with a mouse. “Och aye,” she agreed, and looked calmly around her for her tools. “Yes, we’ll need these, I think,” pulling a deck of cards from a low shelf behind her, “and these, definitely,” palming something from the table before her, just out of view, “and,” she clicked her tongue, thinking. “Ah!” She stood, turned, stepped nimbly onto the chair, and extended her full height plus the elevation afforded by her sky-high stiletto heels to take something from the top of the adjacent cabinetry. She was back in a blink, cool and composed. She spread the three objects before her: an aged and weathered tarot deck, a handful of tiny bones, and a pink stone, a crystal of some sort. “There now. I’m going to shuffle these cards and I want you to think very carefully about your question. What do you wish to know?” She shuffled the leathery old cards, almost too wide for her hands, while he concentrated on her movements. “Tell me when.”

He counted to twenty in his head. “When.”

She chuckled. “Still thinking about your question. This is it, this is your question,” she said, laying the top card facedown on the table. She laid out two more cards, arrayed closer to the camera. “These will give us further clarity on your- Oops!” One card fell out of the deck, face-up. She flipped it over and set it next to her elbow, away from the spread. “We have a jumper! We'll set it aside for now.” She then placed the final card on the bottom row. “There. And now we can begin.” She placed her hand over the first card, paused a moment, then turned it. 

“The Knight of Cups. How romantic.” She hummed and smiled to herself, then turning her face towards Castiel, she tutted. “You didn’t tell me we were looking for a Love reading.” 

Castiel furrowed his brows. 

She swept on. “The seven of Cups. You’re living in a fantasy world, my boy.”

He blushed but said nothing.

“You need to focus. It’s all well and good to daydream, but at some point, you have to wake up and do what must be done.” She turned the next card, and her eyebrows shot up. “The Devil, in reverse,” she purred. 

“Is that bad?”

“No card is all good or all bad. And this one, especially when reversed, is fifty shades of grey.” She lifted the card to study it more closely. “Hmm, yes, that’s a more apt description than I intended! Power struggle, probably sexual,” she muttered, “but some detachment. Not the usual implication of addictions and compulsion. This feels like a dangerous situation, but I believe the powerless party holds all the power in this scenario.” Her eyes shifted back to Castiel, and she shook herself, as if remembering her client. More brightly, she added, “Let’s see the last one, shall we? The ten of Swords. Also reversed.” She held it towards Cas, right side up. “Like this, it’s very melodramatic. Ruin and disaster! But like this,” she continued, placing it back on the table in reverse, “it’s more of a sense of dodging a bullet. Things will take a dramatic turn, but everyone will come through smiling. Have you ever had an out-of-body experience, Castiel?”

“No.” He cocked his head to one side, looking at her sideways.

She just smiled. “Now where does our jumper come in?” She showed him the card. “Look at this derring-do! The Knight of Swords is an impulsive lad, assertive, bit of a rebel. Where our Knight of Cups is chivalrous and caring, the Knight of Swords will throw himself bodily into harm’s way to protect his loved ones. Bit of a perfectionist, too, am I right?”

“Sorry, what?”

“I’m assuming this is you.” She tapped the knight’s upraised sword.

“Um. No. I’m not any of those things. Maybe a perfectionist. But I am not impulsive at all. I schedule everything to the minute. My planner-”

“Pish-tosh. When the stakes are at their highest, you won’t hesitate.”

He shook his head.

She changed gears. “So. As the previous reading said, you can expect a week of confusion and despair, and these cards don’t deny that.” 

Cas groaned. “It’s the damn midterm presentation in microeconomics.”

Rowena gave him a pitying smile. “Oh. Dear. No,” she said, shaking her head. “Look again.”

He did, and he couldn’t see anything but the guy in his class, the paper that wasn’t getting written, and the confusion over- “Love.” He sat back hard against the seatback. “Dean?” 

“Dean? Hmm, I envisioned an _I_ , and some kind of fast-moving prey animal. Or is that just the backdrop to the Winchester rifle I see?”

Cas nodded dully. “You’re right.”

She preened. “Would you like to hear what the bones say?” He nodded again, and she collected the bones into her hands. She rattled them, then let them drop to the tabletop. She peered at them, then back at Cas. “He’s not what he seems, is he?”

“No. I don’t know what I thought he was, but he’s … different than I expected.”

“Hmm. I think maybe you don’t know everything. He’s not exactly the marrying kind.”

Cas shook his head. “No, I know about that. I saw his Patronus.”

“His Patronus? He’s an artist, is he?”

“Umm. Yes? Of sorts.”

She waved her hands with a toss of her head. “No, don’t tell me, Castiel. Artists are hard to love, and it’s even harder to win their love.”

“What about a love spell?”

She laughed. “Oh Castiel, you are a riot. No, of course not. I don’t do love spells,” she said, but he thought he caught a bit of obfuscation in her statement. _I “don’t” do love spells, but…_

“But?”

His question caught her off-guard. She took the little pink stone in her hands. “I do not do love spells. However, I have been known to give people a little push in the right direction.” She held the stone to the light and looked through it. “Hmm. Communication is blocked. Secrets, skeletons, confusion.” She looked back at Cas. “I like you, and I’m intrigued by our artist friend. I’m going to give you a little scrying spell, so you can see yourself, Castiel. I should warn you, though: the spell will show you things you did not wish to know. You’ll see, and you can’t unsee.”

He nodded solemnly. “I understand.”

She raised her chin. “Very well. You’ll be getting a wee package from me by the end of the week. Try not to fret too much, dear!” She waggled her fingers at him, and her window closed. 

A package? A scrying spell? Magic? Was he to perform a magical spell? He went to sleep that night confused, and as the week wore on, he fell further into despair over the mysterious woman’s distrust of his friend Dean.


	9. The Seven of Cups

**The Eastwind Witch**

The package from Rowena arrived on Friday. It was waiting for him on the patio table when he got home, later than usual. He was already feeling out-of-sorts, thanks to the contentious group meeting, which had of course run long, and now the spellwork he had finally put out of his head was staring him in the face. A small cube, wrapped in brown paper, tied with twine, and addressed in a spidery script to “Castiel Edlund.” There was no postage.

He walked inside, shed his coat and tie and shoes at the front door. He plopped onto the couch with a grunt. Turning the package over and over in his hands, he contemplated what he might find within. It unnerved him. He wondered if he should throw it out unopened, or would she know somehow? He’d spent $250 to get to this point; he should at least see what he paid for. 

He untied the bow and found a seam. He pulled, and the paper fell away, revealing an ordinary cardboard box. Just a reused shipping container. Nothing mysterious at all. He noticed that The Eastwind Witch had scratched out her own address with a Sharpie. 

The box opened with a tab along the front side, the top panel lifting upward and back like a lid, hinged at the back. He peered in. Under a layer of tissue paper, an object lay wrapped in more tissue. He tipped the box and let the object fall into his palm. It was surprisingly heavy. It was a small round bag, tied up like a bonbon or like Santa’s sack of toys. The only thing left in the box was another sheet of tissue paper and a roll of paper affixed to the inside of the lid. He carefully removed the scroll and read it.

“Castiel- Enclosed you’ll find everything you need to complete the spell I promised you. When you’re ready, set the wee sack on a flat surface before you and untie the ribbon with two hands, one on each tongue. DO NOT TOUCH ANYTHING, just let the objects fall where they will. Then spread the cloth of the outer bag into a neat circle, no wrinkles or ridges. Next, take the rose quartz (that’s the pink stone, dear), and pop it in your mouth. Hold it there while you complete the spell. DO NOT SWALLOW IT. I shouldn’t have to say that, but you’d be surprised how stupid people can be. Place the wee crucible upright in the center of the circle and add to it the bones and the sprig of rosemary. Add two drops from the vial. ONLY TWO, no more, no less. Take the match and light it against the side of the crucible; let it burn halfway, then drop it into the crucible as well. Mind your eyes- it will flare up. And that’s it, sweetie. Your spell will be active for two minutes. Some people do pass out afterward, but I assure you that whatever you saw, it was no dream. Good luck! -R

“PS- Practicing magic without a witch present can be dangerous, blah blah, I’m not responsible for your inexpertise, blah blah blah, don’t burn down your house. No refunds.”

Cas was no more convinced of the wisdom of attempting spells he bought on the internet. Although. Technically, he did not buy this spell. He paid for the consultation; the spell was a gift. He sighed, wishing that logic made anything easier. He shouldn’t be accepting gifts from strangers on the internet, either.

He decided to go ahead and do it, before he lost his nerve completely. He slid off the couch and sat on his heels. He placed the parcel flat on the coffee table. With two hands, he pulled the bow open, then let go of the ribbon as if it might burn him. Nothing skittered away, thank goodness, but a couple of bones fell over the side of the cloth. He straightened the cloth all the way around and smoothed it down. No wrinkles, no ridges. He picked up the rose quartz. He looked at it for a moment, noting the color, the polished surface, the crystalline layers visible within, and he put it in his mouth. It was bigger in his mouth than it had been in his hand, and he had to roll it around a little with his tongue before he could find a comfortable spot for it to rest. He righted the crucible, a curved grey stone that looked something like a squashed egg cup, checking that it was as completely in the center as possible. He wasn’t sure how sensitive this magic might be, and he was not going to take unnecessary risks. _Other than performing magic spells on the say-so of some witch on the internet_. He plucked the wayward bones from the table and placed them in the depression, and did the same for all the other tiny bones and the rosemary. He picked up the vial, a small glass tube with a slight flare at the bottom so it could stand upright. He pinched the cork between two fingernails and gently pried it out. It smelled terrible. He managed to pour ONLY TWO drops onto the bones - two fat red viscous drops - and recork the vial without spilling or getting any of the unpleasant-looking liquid on his hands. He set it down and rubbed his fingers together anyway, as if that would clean them. He found the match. Last step. He took a deep breath and struck the match. He watched it burn halfway, then tossed it into the crucible. 

His vision went white, then deep purple. He felt an excruciating pain as his neck craned backwards, his face thrust upwards. He opened his eyes wide, wider- he could see nothing but purple glare. He was spinning, his sight chasing light down a whirling tunnel.

All at once, he seemed to turn a corner and an image began to form. 


	10. The Devil, Reversed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: noncon/dubcon, but it’s really not. Dean is in full control of this situation, I promise

**ImpalaASMR**

_Dean. Sprawled on the floor. A voice is coming from somewhere. The laptop on the coffee table. The voice is hissing, telling him to do something. “Don’t stop now. Harder. Keep going.”_

_Dean is crying, actually bawling. He is saying something, over and over. “Safeword! It hurts! Safeword!”_

_“If it hurts so bad, you can use the beer bottle instead.”_

_“No!” Dean struggling to sit, grunting, trying to push a tremendous sex toy into his ass. He shouts for lube. “Please! I can’t do this. Let me get some lube, and I’ll do this for you, Alistair. You want to see me filled up! Please!” The voice laughs. “I’ll come so pretty for you if you let me get some lube.”_

_“I don’t want pretty, I want you to suffer. Deeper, I’m almost there.”_


	11. The Knight of Swords

**ImpalaASMR**

Castiel’s eyes flashed open. The room was dark, but he no longer saw through a purple filter. He had passed out at the sight of Dean, scared, crying, being tortured. He could still hear the sadistic fucker’s laughter ringing in his ears.

How long had he been out? Maybe it wasn’t too late to help Dean?

He flew to the front door. Burst through it, reaching for Dean’s door. It was locked. Cas thought frantically. A credit card. That might work. He grabbed his wallet from his coat pocket with shaking hands. Everything fell out of the wallet as he stood on Dean’s doorstep but the damn credit card. Finally he got it out. He shoved the card into the crack between the door and the jamb. _Please don’t have locked the deadbolt,_ he pleaded. He could almost see where the card needed to go, to slide the clasp out of the lock. His card was getting mangled. He wedged the card in as far as he could and thrust his weight against the door. It gave! He tumbled into Dean’s tiny foyer and fell onto the stairs. 

“Dean!”

“Cas?” A muffled voice came from upstairs. “Is that you? What’s-”

Cas was up the stairs and clutching Dean by the shoulders. “Dean! You’re okay?”

Dean took a step backwards. “I’m fine, Cas. What’s, uh, what’s going on?”

Cas looked. Dean was freshly showered, his cheeks slightly pink, and he was wearing a grey bathrobe, a dark blue towel wrapped around his head. Cas checked his watch. Not even eight o’clock. He’d been out for an hour at the most.

He must have looked insane, because Dean treated him like he might explode. He took his hand very carefully and led him to the couch. “Sit. I’m gonna bring you some water.”

“Maybe something stronger?”

Dean reappeared with a glass of water and a bottle of whiskey. He pressed the water into Castiel’s hand and pulled two more glasses from his robe pockets. “Why don’t you tell me what’s going on?”

Cas shook his head. “It’s stupid, and you won’t believe me.”

“Dude. Whatever it is, it made you leave your house without your coat and without your _shoes_ , and then break into my apartment. Whatever it is, I’ll believe you.”

Cas downed the water. “Okay. I- No.” He wrenched the top off the whiskey and poured himself a full half a glass.

“WHOA whoa.” Dean took it away from him, poured him a sensible amount, and managed to not laugh when Cas drank it as a shot and immediately recoiled. “Okay, you’ve had your liquid courage. Spill.”

“I saw you. I got a spell from a witch and I saw you being tortured.”

Dean sat up straight, face stern. “You saw what now?”

“Earlier, I guess. There was a huge ... _dildo_ ,” he whispered the word, “and you were crying. You kept saying your safeword…”

Dean jumped up and ran to his computer. “You saw this? How? Did I post it? Oh my god, this is bad.”

“No, wait!”

“Was it on Tutube or Patronus?”

“No, Dean, I’m telling you. It wasn’t on the internet.” He rested his hand on his arm. Dean stopped and looked at him. “Dean. Listen to me. I got a spell from a witch. A scrying spell. She sent me everything I needed to perform a spell in my living room. I used the spell, and- and I saw you. I don’t know why, I don’t know what it means. But she told me that you were not what you seem. I tried to tell her that I already knew, that I’d seen your Patronus, I knew what you do for money.”

“Wait, my Patronus?” A light bulb went off in his head, and he groaned. “Shit, _you’re_ Clarence.”

He nodded, miserable. “I just wanted to help.” He sniffled, then glanced up at Dean. His eyes focused and his voice became hard. “ _That’s_ what you took away from that? Not the witchcraft?”

“The internet is a weird place.” He shrugged. “Look, I’m sorry you saw … that. Alistair is a fucking creep, but he pays my bills, y’know?”

“You’re a prostitute, though.”

Dean grimaced. “Ehh, I’m a cam girl, basically. I smile at ’em on camera and flash ’em my tits. I’ve done worse.”

Cas furrowed his brows. “But you don’t have-”

“I’m being poetic.”

Cas stared at the bottle of whiskey. “I’m a fucking creep, too.” He caught Dean’s eye. “I’ve watched your videos. I’ve-” He trailed off, face on fire.

“What, you beating off to my videos?” He laughed and slapped Cas on the back. “You’re alright. Hey, you eaten? I could really go for a Moons Over My Hammy right about now. My treat?”

Cas tried to compose himself. “Sure. Thanks.”

“Not a date, though.”

“Of course not.”

Dean relaxed. “Okay. I’m gonna throw some clothes on. Go get your shoes and coat, and I’ll meet you downstairs in a minute.” 

Cas had one and a half shoes on when Dean tripped out his front door and pulled it shut behind him. He looked down and saw the scattered contents of Cas’ wallet. “What happened here? Oh right, the old credit card in the door trick.” He stooped for the poor bent credit card in question, then picked up the rest of the debris while Cas swung his coat on. Dean handed him the stack; Cas shoved it into his inside breast pocket. “Good thing I’m treating, huh?” He held out his arm.

Cas looked at it. “This isn’t a date? You pick me up at my apartment and hold out your arm for me?”

Dean snorted. “Can’t a man escort his friend without being judged? Next you’ll say I can’t open your car door for you either.”

Cas took his arm, allowed himself to be led, and graciously waited for Dean to open the passenger door for him. 


	12. The Ten of Swords, Reversed

**ImpalaASMR**

“Here we are. Two coffees, two waters. Do you guys need a minute or are you ready to order?”

“We’re ready to order,” Cas replied. “He’ll have a Moons Over My Hammy with a side of bacon, and I’ll have the Rooty Tooty Fresh and Fruity with blueberry and eggs overeasy.” He handed the server their menus, and she scooted away.

“You’re a take-charge kinda guy, aren’t you?”

“Well, I should earn my keep.” He busied himself with sugar packets and creamer containers. He gestured towards Dean’s cup, but Dean shook his head no.

“Hey Cas. You’re not a fucking creep, okay?”

He blinked. “Okay.”

“I mean it. Please don’t think you’re creepy for watching porn, ‘kay, it’s what it’s there for.” Cas nodded. “But I gotta wonder…”

“What?”

“I mean. You have the genuine article right upstairs. Don’t look so scandalized! Didn’t you ever think to ask for…” He waved his hands down the front of himself in invitation. 

“Dean!”

“Was it shyness?”

“What?”

“I’m cute, you’re cute. I like dick, you like-”

“Keep your voice down,” Cas hissed. 

Dean raised his hands in apology. 

“I don’t actually know that. I’ve never tried.”

“Okay. But you like watching videos-”

“Yes. I like watching videos. But sex is messy and, I dont know, embarrassing? I would be perfectly happy never to have sex again.”

Dean leaned forward. “Dude. That’s okay. I’m actually really happy to hear that. You’re talking to someone who loves sex, but let’s be real, other people are gross.”

“I’m confused.”

The server brought a fresh pot of coffee and a pitcher of syrup. “Do you need ketchup, hon?” she asked Dean.

“Yeah, thanks.”

She pulled a bottle of Heinz out of an apron pocket and left it on the table. 

The thread of the conversation was gone. 

“What were we saying?”

“I- don’t remember.”

“Me neither. Listen. Cas. You gotta stop trying to give me money.”

“But I can help-“

He shook his head. “I’m not as broke as you think.”

“Okay but-“

“Cas. I’m not your Julia Roberts, okay?” 

He sat up, staring down at his hands, folded in his lap. He thought a moment before continuing. “I’m sorry, Dean. You don’t want my money. I understand that. But neither do I. My parents are terrible. My father’s books are worse. And as much as I hate living off their so-called ‘generosity’ and the inherent sense of obligation it engenders, I can’t leave $400 on the table every month.” 

Dean pulled a face and gave Cas a half-nod. He clearly didn’t understand, but he was willing to accept the truth of what Cas said. “His books are terrible,” Dean conceded. “And I don’t know your mom, obviously, but the one time I met your dad, he had a real creepy-uncle vibe going on.”

“You met him?”

“The day you moved in? He was squatting on the porch while you and the movers worked.”

“I can’t believe you remember that.”

Dean shrugged one shoulder.

“Anyway. I never understood why my half-brothers were so desperate to get rid of their allowances. I guess I see now: it was never about the money. But I have no intention of casting myself out. I’m going to be a good little soldier until I can emancipate myself on my own terms. I’ll let them pay for my education. I’ll earn the right to control my trust fund, and control my own destiny. And in the meantime, I’ll turn this tether to my advantage. I’ll use all the power of Heaven to help others. Even if it means bleeding Naomi and Carver for every cent they begrudgingly bestow,” he added, a ruthlessness in his eye as he spoke. Dean seemed to flinch. Cas reined himself in with a sigh. “What I’m saying is, it makes no sense for you – or anyone,” he clarified, “to struggle when I can help you. Them.”

Their food arrived. They were quiet for several moments, savoring their meals. 

“How’s the Moons Over My Hammy?” Cas asked.

“Good,” Dean replied around a mouthful of bacon. He swallowed and chased it with a gulp of coffee. “How’s the-” His face split. “I can’t even say it without laughing! Your ‘Rooty-Tooty.'”

“Rooty Tooty Fresh and Fruity.”

Dean chuckled.

“What?”

“You can just say it. Not a trace of irony, you just say it.”

“That’s what it’s called, though.”

“Okay. Sure. How is it?”

Cas picked at a blueberry. “It’s fine. Better than I thought, but not undisappointing.”

Dean cocked an eyebrow at the choice of words. He grabbed a fork and carved off a piece of pancake, swiping it through the blueberry sauce and whipped cream. As he chewed, he nodded. “Nope, you’re right.”

“Another idea: maybe you don’t have to pay rent?” Cas turned shy suddenly. 

“Hmm?”

“Move in with me,” he blurted. “I mean… I have a two-bedroom, we could be roommates, that’s all.” His eyes darted left. He tried to reclaim his stern visage, but he was way outside his comfort zone. How many times had he considered this suggestion, an obvious solution to Dean’s money woes? A casual, simple, friendly solution- no feelings on Cas’ part, no embarrassment on Dean’s. And now that it came to it, he felt terrified and threatened and showing all his vulnerabilities, plain as day. “As roommates. Just roommates. And I could fill the fridge. You could-”

A slow smile spread across Dean’s face. He stood up from the booth and moved around to crouch at Castiel’s side on the opposite bench. He seemed to loom over Castiel. The smile turned wolfish, lopsided, displaying one brilliant fang. “Move in with you, huh?”

Cas squared his jaw, raised an eyebrow. Something in Dean’s face softened. His eyes still burned hard and bright, but his grin wavered. Cas watched as his tongue flicked out over his lips. He imagined those lips tasted pink, like lip balm. His own lips parted, and his mouth felt dry.

He heard a slight chuckle and felt a hand cupping the base of his skull. Dean pulling him close. Their mouths met. Dean’s lips tasted red, salty; Cas wondered if a kiss could be _treyf_. He deepened the kiss, running his tongue across a ridge of perfect teeth, feeling the bite of sharp canines, then opening himself up to Dean. He stifled an exhalation of pleasure as Dean licked into his mouth, his hand curling into a fist, pulling his hair just so. He became aware of music from a speaker overhead, a song he recognized but couldn’t place. _You give my life direction / you make everything so clear._

“Cas.” Dean broke the kiss, his mouth still tantalizingly close, lips brushing Castiel’s as he spoke. “I’m not gonna move in with you.”

His eyes flew open and he jerked away. “But. Why not?”

Dean sat back on his heels. “I like you a lot. But think about it: how is this gonna work? You don’t like sex, and my whole job is sex.”

Cas squirmed. He had no reply. His head was still swirling from the unexpected kiss. He clasped Dean’s hands and searched his face.

“I’m not with the whole love, and love.” He scrunched up his nose. “That wasn’t English. Take two. You don’t do sex; I don’t do relationships. I wouldn’t know an emotional attachment if it bit me on the ass. And to be honest with you, nothing personal, but I don’t have sex with guys.”

Cas blinked in astonishment. “But your videos?”

“That’s just it. That’s work. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I love my job! But I don’t wanna bring my work home with me, if you get me.” He dropped Cas’ hands. “I have my studio just the way I like it, and it’s soundproofed. I’m not moving it downstairs just to save a couple bucks on rent. I’m really not that hard up for cash, I mean it.”

Cas looked at him doubtfully.

“Really, scout’s honor.”

“Dean, you skip class to work.”

He nodded, fidgeting a bit. “Sometimes. Sometimes I skip class to decompress from work; sometimes I skip class to catch up on assignments. Mostly just film class, though, because it’s an elective. Gotta keep my grades up in the classes that might count towards engineering. Plus, it’s been a long time since I was in school, and I was never very good at it then, either.”

“I can help.”

He shot finger guns. “Now _that_ I can take you up on. But c’mon Cas, stop trying to give me money.”

“Okay, Dean.” Then: “But can I still subscribe to your Patronus? For early access?”

“God no, makes me feel like you’re just another client. But. You can always have early access. If you swear not to fuck up my channel, I’ll give you the password, and you can see everything.”

“Dean, you don’t have to-“

“I know I don’t. I want to. And if you ever want to help out? Let me know,” he winked.

Cas didn’t know what to say. Full access to his channel felt a lot more intimate than moving in together. Dean _trusted_ him. 

It occurred to Cas that maybe they were two halves of an “It’s Complicated” coin. Dean said he wouldn’t know what an emotional attachment would even look like. Meanwhile, Cas craved it. He wanted to win back that feeling of intimacy that he had shared with Meg in the early days of their relationship, the coziness that had been obliterated after he lost his virginity. He had long feared that he’d never find anyone who would agree to an adult relationship with him ever again, without the promise of an active sex life. And now both he and Dean seemed to be arching towards compromise, towards emotional and sexual compatibility, where none should have existed. Yin and yang. Cas thought he could see a solution to their equal and opposite roadblocks: the answer was trust, respect, and friendship.

As if to underline, highlight, and italicize what Cas was thinking, Dean fished in his pocket. He pulled out his keys and started to detach a ring with one single key on it. “My door’s always open. No more credit cards, ’kay?”

Cas grinned and ducked his head. “Dean, I’m so sorry.”

He waved a hand. “Psh. I’m just proud of you for leaving the house. I know that’s not really your thing.”

Cas was beyond grateful. “I’ll get you a spare key, too. You’re always welcome. As long as you take your shoes off at the door,” he added.

“There he is,” Dean laughed. He draped his arms over Cas’ shoulders and dropped a kiss on the top of his head. He waited for Cas to wriggle free before he righted himself on the bench. He reached across the table for his sandwich. “You’re alright, Cas.”

It sounded an awful lot like a declaration of love.


	13. Experimentation

**ImpalaASMR AdultSkate**

**Dec 9**

**2:45pm**

_< 3 Dean <3 _:

physics exam kicked my ass. Heading home now. Appt @ 6- dinner at yours?

**3:07pm**

_Cas :*_ :

Just got this :) Meatloaf okay?

**3:08pm**

_< 3 Dean <3_ :

I knew I liked you

**3:08pm**

_Cas :*_ :

<3

**3:10pm**

_Cas :*_ :

I’ll put it in the oven at 7. Come down when you’re ready.

**3:11pm**

_< 3 Dean <3_ :

Will do. Can I bring anything?

**3:15pm**

_Cas :*_ :

Just yourself.

**3:15pm**

_Cas :*_ :

And BYOB

**3:16pm**

_< 3 Dean <3_ :

(thumbs-up emoji)

**3:16pm**

_< 3 Dean <3_ :

(kissy-face emoji)

**5:45pm**

_< 3 Dean <3_ :

had an idea for a video you could help me w/. Remind me to tell you @ dinner. CU soon

***

“You sure you’re okay with this?” Dean asked. He looked a lot more nervous than Cas felt. As if this was his first sex tape, not Cas’.

“I’m … fine. More than fine. I’m excited!”

“If your mouth gets tired, you don’t have to keep going. I can always edit, or delete the whole thing if you-“

“Dean,” he interrupted, hushing him with a peck on the lips. “The video was your idea, but the blowjob was mine.” He shrugged. “Like I said, I’ll try anything once.”

He relented. “Okay, if you’re sure. But you’re in charge here.”

Cas set a calming hand on Dean’s shoulder. “We’re in this together.”

“Thanks, babe.”

The term of endearment threw Cas momentarily, but he beamed. He took Dean’s hands and kissed his knuckles. “Ready?”

Dean hit Record.

***

After that first video, Cas did indeed notice a change in their relationship, but not for the worse. If anything, Dean seemed less skittish, more affectionate and tender. He was more willing to stay over at Cas’ after dinner, and Cas loved waking up to find Dean draped over him, one arm holding him close to his chest. He loved waking Dean up on these occasions by scootching farther into the curve of his body, pressing his butt against the morning wood blooming in Dean’s boxers. Their routine became more and more domestic. Dean’s stuff lived upstairs; Castiel’s stuff lived downstairs. But they were always in and out of each other’s front doors, as if the front porch was merely another adjoining hallway. 

Cooking breakfast in Castiel’s kitchen one morning, Dean commented, “Y’know, I once heard that, when Helena Bonham Carter and Tim Burton were a couple, they lived next door to each other. So, like, this could work.”

“But they’re not together anymore.”

Dean shrugged. “True. But they managed for a decade, and they had _kids_ ,” he added with a measure of distaste.

Cas came behind Dean and wrapped his arms around his waist. “Are you saying, we’re a couple?” he teased.

Dean squirmed, and Cas briefly worried that he’d crossed the unspoken line separating them. _Not a couple, and we only have sex on the internet._ Dean wriggled a little more determinedly and turned himself around to face Cas. He almost looked disappointed. “Cas. We’ve _been_ _dating_ for two and a half years.”

“I- Yes, I know,” Cas stammered. “I mean. We don’t really talk about our ‘relationship.’”

Dean snorted, then broke, his head thrown back in laughter. “Oh my god, Cas.” He stumbled away and braced his hands on his knees. “Whoo!”

Cas just looked on, confused. “Are you laughing because we are, or because we aren’t?”

“I don’t know, man.” He was trying to rein in the laughter, and his eyes were watering. “Jesus Christ, Cas.” He pressed closer, put a hand on Cas’ shoulder. “Never change.”

“Oka-ay. Dean?”

“I’m okay, Cas. I just- whoo! I can’t believe it took us this long to say any of that out loud. I’m just so fucking relieved, y’know?”

“Oh. Good.”

“I fucking love you, Cas.” His welling eyes released a tear down his cheek, and Cas stared. He quickly brushed it away, but he held Cas’ gaze. 

“I’m glad,” Cas blurted. “I mean: I love you, too.”

Dean pulled Cas into a rib-crushing hug. “I’m so grateful for you,” he whispered.

“Me too.”

He loosed his hold on him only to turn back to the stove. He shut off the burner under the smoking pan. “Well, these are burnt,” he said, scraping the brittle, plasticized eggs down the garbage disposal. “Worth it, though,” he grinned. “I’ll make you more.”

“In a minute,” Cas said, snagging Dean around the waist and pulling him close. 

He managed to drop the skillet on a cold burner before surrendering to Castiel’s embrace. Dean’s hands clasped his face, and their lips met. Castiel relished the butterflies zooming around inside him. Dean could still turn him into a quivering mess with a simple kiss. And this was no simple kiss. Dean was pouring all of the restraint of the past three years into this kiss. Castiel felt his bond with Dean grow, deepen. He probed the limits of his own feelings, pushing over the flimsy boundaries that had kept his emotions in check, lest he scare Dean away with too much intimacy. He was overwhelmed by Dean’s sudden dam-break. 

Dean must have been overwhelmed, too, because he pulled away suddenly, gripping Cas by the biceps. He fell to his knees with a cry, and Cas tumbled to the floor to support him. Dean was openly sobbing by this point, so Cas scooped him up as best he could, cradling his head against his chest. He petted Dean’s hair and cooed soothing words at him. “Shh, you’re okay, Dean. I’m here. I’m always here.” 

“Cas. I need you.”

“I know. I need you, too.”

“You gave me everything, and I let you think I didn’t need you.”

“No. I knew.”

“You wanted a boyfriend.”

“And you’ve been more boyfriend than I ever hoped for.” 

“I’m a mess,” he moaned.

“You’re beautiful.”

“No, I’m not. I’m a disaster!”

“Well, you’re my disaster, and I won’t let anything bad happen to you.”

Dean sniffled. He wasn’t done crying, nor was he actively trying to stop, but the sobs abated as he lay on the kitchen floor, clutching Cas like a life raft. “I need a tissue.”

Cas kissed his hair and twisted behind him to grope along the countertop for a paper towel. “Will this do?”

Dean nodded, keeping his face hidden. He blew his nose. “I’m sorry.”

“No.”

“I’m gonna-“ Dean staggered up. He held the counter and stomped the pins-and-needles out of his feet. “I’m gonna go clean myself up.”

“Hang on.” Cas plucked at his pant leg. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine, just- don’t look at me, ‘kay? Just gonna splash some cold water on my face, make myself presentable.”

“Okay, babe.” Cas couldn’t see Dean’s smile, but he could feel its warmth.

“Okay, babe,” he repeated.


	14. An Unexpected Party

**ImpalaASMR AllAges**

“Hey friends. It’s Dean.” He was standing in front of the camera at an unusual angle. “I have Cas here with me today,” he said, stepping aside to reveal the reason for this odd setup. Cas, seated a few feet away, waved. Dean’s face filled the screen again. He bobbed back and forth, whispering into each head of the microphone in turn. “It’s finals week, and we all need some time. To unwind. So we don’t lose our minds. This is our last semester, me and Cas. We can’t study anymore. Senioritis. So we wanted to do this video, to help y’all relax. Even if it’s too late for us to save ourselves. From procrastination. We’re doing something a little different,” he murmured. “I have a bunch of microphones rigged up on Cas, and I have these nifty things,” lifting his hands to reveal futuristic gloves with sensors arrayed along the fingers and palm, with a small battery pack attached at each wrist. “ASMR Moondoor Queen got these for me as an early graduation gift. You should go check out her channel. She is doing amazing things with video production. Really awesome stuff. Tell her I sent you, and she’ll personally punch me in the arm for dragging her into my filthy little world.” He winked. “Anyway. I’m going to give Cas a scalp massage, and you should be able to feel it like always. Maybe even better- let’s see if these gloves live up to the hype. Ready, Cas,” he asked, stepping out of the frame. Cas gave a thumbs up and an awkward smile.

The video cut to a wide-shot of Dean standing behind Cas as he sat in Dean’s office chair. That is, the video would need to be cut there before it was uploaded to Tutube, because, as Dean walked over, Cas asked him again if the wide-shot was entirely necessary. “Dean, the angle is all wrong. It should be tighter, more intimate.”

“It’s right where I want it, Cas.”

“Okay, but these are always the worst videos. No one wants to be that far away. It takes you right out of the moment.”

Dean laid a finger on Cas’ lips to silence him. “Dude. Just trust my artistic vision, okay?”

Cas frowned. “Okay, Dean.” He was rewarded with a quick kiss. He got himself into position for filming. “I’m ready when you are.”

Dean combed his fingers backwards through Castiel’s hair. Cas let his eyes drop closed but tried to maintain a neutral expression. Dean’s hands were magical: Dean had only to stroke Cas’ hair or back or feet for him to melt. Dean was not as easily satisfied by a back massage, but Cas made allowances to accommodate his needs. Usually in the recording studio, but occasionally he surprised Dean with a more impromptu orgasm.

They had planned for the rest of this video to focus solely on the sounds of the scalp massage. In fact, they weren’t convinced they wouldn’t cut out the intro entirely so they could tag it as a no-talking video. There were thousands of no-talking scalp massage videos on Tutube, but the appetite for them was insatiable. New ones never failed to get an ASMRtist a record number of views and likes. 

So Cas was concerned when Dean’s hands left his hair. He waited a moment, listening for movement. He heard Velcro. Dean was removing the microphone gloves. If Dean needed to edit out whatever-was-happening, Cas didn’t want to wreck the continuity by opening his eyes, so he stayed perfectly still. Soon he heard, “Ahem.” Dean clearing his throat. But the noise came from a foot or two from where Cas sat. He opened his eyes, and his eyes tracked downward. There knelt Dean, his downstage hand behind his back. Castiel sucked in a breath, eyes wide. “Dean?”

“Cas.” He held up a ring box and opened it with a flourish. “Marry me?”

“Are you serious? You’ve got to be- Are we still recording?”

“Is that a yes or a no?”

“Yes, god, it’s a yes!” He watched as Dean wrestled the band from the box and wiggled it onto Cas’ finger. 

“Hey, it fits!” Dean crowed. 

Cas couldn’t quite absorb what was happening. Dean proposing? On video? Was this a bit? It felt real, if entirely surreal. He looked at Dean, still holding his hand and beaming, his eyes wet. “Are you crying?” he asked Dean.

“Nah, just a little dust in my eye,” he lied, then laughed. “We’re gonna get married, Cas. Like a couple of breeders.”

Cas chuckled, and the sound turned to a sob in his throat. Tears he didn’t know were there suddenly spilled down his cheeks, and he pulled Dean into his lap, claiming a kiss. “You’re gonna edit all this out, right?” he asked with a smile, almost daring him to erase this moment.

“Nope,” Dean grinned, pulling away to stand. “It’s a livestream.”

Cas jumped to his feet. “It’s a what?” He glanced at the camera, saw the red light burning away. He noticed, too, the monitor. It was set to Dean’s Tutube page, and he could see himself on-screen. He smacked Dean on the arm.

“Ow! Hmmf,” Dean managed, as Cas reeled him in, his hands fisting Dean’s lapels. “Bastard,” he growled against his lips. Dean grinned again, unrepentant, and let himself be caught up in Castiel’s fury. Cas kissed him with unrestrained passion. Livestream or no, he surged against Dean, wishing he could get closer. He wanted to crawl into Dean’s skin, absorb him, to merge their bodies into one soul, a fusion reaction to obliterate the merest atomic space between them.

The mania passed, and they parted, panting and strung out with longing. Cas buckled, still gripping Dean’s shirt; Dean stood over him, solid as marble, hands tangled in Cas’ hair. They looked like a painting. _The Kiss_ by Klimt. No, they were a photograph: a Mapplethorpe, a Weber. 

They breathed each other’s breath, half ready to fall back into one another. They inclined their foreheads together, and Dean dropped a hand from Cas’ hair to his stubbled jaw. He pressed his palm into the bristles, and Castiel nuzzled into this touch. His thumb traced circles on the smooth skin of Castiel’s cheek, rubbing away a tear, then another. Dean brought his other hand to his chest, covering Cas’ fist, joining their hands over his heart, feeling the rise and fall as he caught his breath. 

Cas was first to recover speech. “So. A livestream, huh?” 

Dean nodded, jerking himself back into showman mode. He swivelled on his heel, facing the camera head-on and grinning like the cat that caught the canary. He draped an arm across Cas’ shoulders. Then he directed Cas’ attention to the monitor, where a steady stream of emojis floated across the bottom of the screen. “See, those hearts are for you. ‘Oh Cas, we love you,’” he joked, pitching his voice up an octave. 

“And those thumbs-up?” Cas dropped his voice deeper. “‘Dean, ACES,’” and gave the camera two thumbs up. 

“You’re aces,” Dean mumbled into his ear. Cas could feel his voice vibrating through his chest. The words rumbled through his head, across his scalp, into his belly, down to his toes. Dean electrified him to his very core. Cas imagined a future, very real, very close, in which this beautiful soul shone only for him, forever. “Well, c’mon babe, show them the ring!”

_This could work._


End file.
